The Good Soldier
by F S Woodell
Summary: July 1942, Cliveden, England: Christine Jones begins a new job as Secretary to the ill-tempered and demanding Colonel Erik Rochard. Inititally attracting the attention of Charles Grey and struggling to cope with the demands Rochard makes of her, she begins to question how much she truly knows about the two men.
1. Chapter 1

_**One**_

"Miss Jones?"

"Yes." The girl in front of me couldn't have been much older than I was, but her tone was so authoritative that I felt myself stand to attention. My hand shot out to shake her proffered one.

"I'm Grace Haller. You'll be my replacement. Colonel Clifton asked me to show you the ropes for today. There's quite a lot to get through, so you'll want to make notes."

"Of course." She turned on her heels and opened the door she had exitedonly thirty seconds earlier. "You'll be working in here." I walked through and waited for her to lead the way. "This was a pre-existing military base, but it's pretty ancient and they've had to make some extensions. We've been quite lucky – we're not in one of the new prefabs where you freeze in the winter and melt in the summer." She motioned to a pair of security guards who blocked the entrance to what I assumed were offices beyond. "Did they give you a pass?"

"Yes." I fished in my purse and pulled out a paper ID, already dog-eared.

"You need to keep it somewhere safer than that. If you lose it, you'll be in big trouble." I tried not to look embarrassed as I copied her movements and flashed my ID at the guards. Beyond the booths was a narrow corridor that opened out onto a vast floor of open-plan offices. Grey daylight could be glimpsed from windows placed high on the walls, and to the right and left were several closed, unmarked doors. Grace moved towards the door closest to us on the left. "You've been assigned to Colonel Rochard. This is his office. You'll have one key, he has the other. Don't let anyone borrow it and make sure you lock it if you have to go out." I nodded and watched as she unlocked the door and motioned for me to go in. "This is your office. The Colonel's is through there."

"The Colonel isn't here?"

Grace grimaced. "God, no. He hates disruptions to his routine, and you are a disruption. He has a meeting until ten, which is why I had them bring you down now so I can get you settled in. There are a few things about him that you need to know. Take a seat." I sat at once in the only chair available while Grace perched on the desk. "Colonel Rochard is not an easy man to work for. God knows, he'll be the first one to tell you that you're his fourth secretary in as many months. He's demanding and generally ungrateful. If you're doing alright, he'll ignore you. If you're not, you'll wish you'd stayed at home. Don't expect any small talk. I know some bosses are like that, but he's all about the work. And that's another thing – he'll expect you to do a lot of overtime. He and I argued about that, and that's one of the reasons I asked for a transfer. I told him, "I am not an appendage to this office. It's unreasonable to expect me to work until midnight or one in the morning six days a week!" So be firm with him. I think he respects that. But the most important thing to remember is, don't mention the mask."

"The mask?"

"Yes. He wears a mask that covers half of his face. I don't know why – maybe he got wounded, maybe not – it's worth more than our jobs to speculate. Just don't mention it or draw attention to it. He gets angry and you'll make your working life a hell of a lot more difficult."

"Alright. Anything else?"

"Oh, just a hundred little things. Time to get your notebook out." I could tell from the way she glanced at the clock that Grace was impatient to get my induction out of the way. Before I'd uncapped my pen, she was racing off again.

"I understand you're trilingual. That's good. You'll certainly be speaking French on a daily basis. The Colonel insisted that he brief you himself about the work we've been doing. Move your legs a sec." I obliged and she opened a drawer in the desk. "This is his appointment diary. Do not lose it and make sure you keep it up to date, because if you don't, you'll be the one he blames. I've colour-coded his contact list. It's a very simple system; every contact is either a red, amber or green. If they're green, allow them to speak to the Colonel immediately, even if he's left you explicit instructions not to be disturbed. If they're amber, it's your call, depending on whether you think putting them in contact with him will be useful. If they're red, do not let them speak to the Colonel. Either deal with them yourself or delegate it to someone else. Clear?" I nodded, still scribbling furiously. "Sometimes he'll be so busy he'll skip meals and take naps in the office. You're going to have to anticipate everything before he even asks for it – meals, fresh uniforms, chauffeurs." I stole a glance at Grace just as she checked her watch and frowned. "We're running late already. Do you have all of that written down?" I nodded, blinking. "Good. I need to introduce you to some people." She was already out the door and I hadn't even left my seat; hastily I deposited my notebook and the diary on the desk and followed her. The open-plan office was airless and stuffy, and several of the girls closest to me were pink-cheeked and sweating in their scratchy uniforms. "Miss Jones!" Grace motioned impatiently a few paces away. "I'm sorry!" I managed to mumble, almost running as I tried to keep up. It took a few second before I realised that Grace has been pointing to the unmarked doors. "Post room, signals room, filing room. Meeting room. Intelligence liaison." We stopped suddenly and I almost crashed into her. She swung the door open and I managed to peek around Grace's shoulder as she introduced me to someone who I thought was called Margaret. "Secretary to Colonel Grey," explained Grace.

I hesitated. "And Colonel Grey is…?"

"Military Intelligence Liaison," she repeated. "He and Margaret are the people you'll have the most contact with." There was barely time to give more than a glancing nod to Margaret before Grace shut the door again and faced me directly. "A word of warning. You're quite pretty, so he'll probably try to charm you out of your knickers once he gets to know you. Don't let him." I felt myself blushing immediately, but Grace barely seemed to have noticed. We picked up speed again and the rest of the tour passed in a blur. Grace introduced me to Secretaries, Intelligence Analysts, Signallers and a handful of other staff whose faces I didn't have time to register before she whisked me back to the office again and spent the next hour and a half talking through various office procedures. Her knowledge seemed encyclopaedic and I started to feel increasingly overwhelmed. Colonel Rochard seemed to be a tyrannical monarch who ruled his kingdom with an iron fist. My mouth was dry and my hand ached from writing shorthand; there was so much information to take in and I could barely recall any of it. If I could just splash some water on my face, I might be able to think more clearly. I barely had fifteen minutes before the Colonel got back from his meeting and I didn't want to meet him for the first time looking and feeling as if I've been dragged through a bush backwards. Grace mentioned something about coffee and I trudged wearily after her. The office kitchen was on the opposite side of the open plan office, and as we passed by the Secretary pool, we attracted several curious glances.

The office kitchen was tiny and I had to squeeze past Grace to get into it. "The Colonel has his own coffee. Never use anything else. He can always tell the difference." As she lit the gas stove I looked through the cupboard for coffee cups and managed to find three. "What are you doing?" Grace interrupted. Immediately she returned two cups. "You'll have to have something later. There's no time now!" She didn't look panicked, but she was frowning and every five seconds she checked her watch. The wait for the kettle to boil was agonising, but I didn't have the energy to fill the silence with small talk. I patted my hair nervously and smoothed out a non-existent wrinkle on my skirt. As soon as the coffee was done we scurried back across the office and Grace closed the door. "Right. You sit there. I'll go and put this in his office." I was just about to sit down when the door burst open and I jumped up again in surprise. Grace wasn't joking about the mask. The man who'd just entered the room was wearing a tan leather mask that covered the left side of his face from forehead to below the cheek, which was just as well because he looked as if he'd probably be scowling if he didn't have it on. Without a word he walked straight past me into his office and shut the door. I wasn't quite sure what I should do. I could hear him talking to Grace and I hovered nervously near the door, wondering if I should knock. After a few minutes I decided against it and sat back down. I leafed through the appointment book and checked to see what appointments he had that day. There were dozens of meetings pencilled in and some of them were at the same time, which was confusing. Why had he double-booked himself? I checked the page for the week before, which looked almost identical except that most of the appointments had been crossed out. The only ones that were left all seemed to be with either the lecherous Colonel Grey or a certain 'G.C.', which didn't ring a bell. I pulled out the contact list and ran a finger down the list of names; the only one that fitted seemed to be General Crawley. A General. The only time I'd ever seen a General was on the newsreels at the cinema, pointing at battle plans and pouring over maps. If Colonel Rochard was meeting with this General Crawley on a regular basis, he must be someone important. I closed the diary and took a few deep breaths. The telephone began to ring, and I stared at as if I'd never seen a telephone in my life before. After ten rings it was clear she wasn't coming and I reached for the handset. "Colonel Rochard's office?"

"Gracie? How's the new girl settling in?" The voice was feminine and rather chipper.

"Um, no. I mean, I'm the new girl." There was the tiniest of pauses and the sound of whispering.

"I'm such an idiot! Should have noticed you had a different voice. I'm Mabel. My desk is opposite your door." The room was small enough that I could see what was going on outside without having to move, and I craned my neck. Mabel must have been the one waving and grinning at me like a madwoman. Two girls at the desks next to her were also glancing my way speculatively and I gave a rather anaemic wave back. "Have you met the beast yet?"

"No, not really. He just – walked straight past me. I'm sorry, but are you a friend of Grace's?"

"Yes! Sorry, didn't I mention that? We're her support group. Emergency ciggie break in half an hour, alright? Let Grace know."

"Alright." Mabel hung up the phone. As I replaced the receiver the door to Rochard's office swang open and Grace appeared. She closed the door behind her with exaggerated care. "Who was on the phone?"

"Mabel. Something about a break in half an hour?"

"Thank God. Mabel's a darling. Listen, he wants to see you now. Try not to let him see that you're nervous." My hands were shaking, so I pretended to look for a spare pen in my bag and took a few deep breaths before knocking on the door.

"Enter." The command was clear and sharp, and I felt like a schoolgirl again, being called into the headmaster's office. Opening the door, I sensed Grace at my elbow as I stepped into the office. "This is Miss Jones, Sir." The Colonel was standing behind his desk, studying a map of what appeared to be northern France. "Sit down, Miss Jones. Thank you, Miss Haller." He didn't look up as she left, nor did he speak to me, and for a minute or so I sat and watched. He wasn't especially tall, but rather broad-shouldered and robust. He must have been wearing aftershave, as the room now had a different, vaguely masculine scent of soap and sandalwood. I schooled myself not to look at the mask and instead peeked surreptitiously at the part of his face that was visible, deciding that he would be handsome if he smiled more. When he looked at me suddenly, I almost jumped out of my seat. His eyes were almost golden in colour.

"Has Miss Haller shown you how we work?"

"Yes."

"Good. Has she explained what this department does? Who it works with?"

"Only that it liaises with the French."

He sat down, never breaking eye contact. "I need a Secretary who understands how this department works, inside and out. No excuses. Your predecessors haven't been up to scratch in that regard. If you wish to stay in this position, don't make the same mistake. France has been occupied for over three years. In that time, the French Resistance has attempted to resist both the German Occupation and the Vichy goverment. The sole responsibility of this department is to aid with the coordination of the Resistance. Any questions?" I shook my head. He reached under the map and handed me a cardboard file four inches thick. "This is confidential. Bring it back to me immediately once you've finished with it, and no note-taking. I don't have time to give you a full briefing, so this will have to do. You'll shadow Miss Haller for today and then start officially tomorrow." I nodded again and then waited, expecting him to continue; it took a few seconds before I realised that he had already returned his attention to the map, and the meeting was over. Clutching the file, I exited the office as quickly as I could.

My first day had left me feeling exhausted and dispirited; with the exception of Colonel Rochard I had found my new colleagues welcoming and sympathetic, but even this smacked of pity. It seemed as if I been given the raw end of the deal, and everyone knew it. My one consoling thought was that I could at least count on the Colonel for an honest opinion. He was as curt and uncommunicative when I wished him a good evening as he had been during our first meeting, but there was comfort in his consistency. He was clearly uninterested in office politics, and he would surely work well with someone who kept their head down and did the same. Grace allowed me to leave at seven (although she assured me it would never happen again), and I decided to walk the short distance back to my new flat and read as much of the file he had given me as I could. I had never lived on my own before, and the silence of the tiny box room where I slept was distinctly mournful. As expected, the information the Colonel had put together for my briefing was thorough, and I was glad for the distraction. He was responsible for aiding the exiled French command in London with the co-ordination of the resistance in northern France, although he clearly had an uphill struggle; communication between the different units of resistance was difficult and at times impossible under the severe scrutiny of the Nazi-backed Vichy government. For every step forward two had to be conceded, and almost no measurable progress had been made in planning a co-ordinated attack. I quickly learned to distinguish Rochard's cursive notes in the margins: "We are nipping at their heels without drawing blood," "ineffectual," "incompetent," "a waste of time and valuable resources." Many of the guerrilla fighters, or maquisards, had escaped to the mountains to avoid conscription into the German army, and often faced internment in labour camps if captured. I read until midnight and slept soundly.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

The next day I woke up before the alarm clock, and arrived at the office at seven. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I flicked through the Colonel's appointment diary. Grace had explained that different departments often required him to be in three or four meetings at the same time, so he simply crossed out the least important ones. My own routine was unwritten, but deeply ritualised; coffeemaker, gatekeeper, note-taker, filing clerk and translator.

Coffee for the Colonel in hand, I returned to the office and placed it on his desk before sorting through the bundle of papers that had been placed in my in-tray. The more I tried not to glance at the clock, the more I accidentally caught sight of the time out of the corner of my eye.

"You must be the new Grace." I looked up again to find the most attractive man I had ever seen in uniform standing in the doorway. "I'm Colonel Grey." He held out as hand and I cautiously shook it.

"I'm Christine Jones."

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Jones. We'll probably be seeing a great deal of each other." I tried to remember Grace's warning, but there seemed to be nothing predatory in his smile.

"I look forward to it, Colonel."

"Good. And don't mind Rochard. His bark is much worse than his bite." He walked past me into the Colonel's office, and I followed him with some confusion. I watched as he sat at a chair near the desk and proceeded to pull out a number of files from his briefcase.

"Did you have a meeting with Colonel Rochard?"

He looked up. "Yes. We usually have briefing three times a week. Check the diary. Grace was always terribly efficient about that sort of thing." I fetched the diary and flicked through the schedule. There it was, at seven thirty: briefing with CG.

"Well done for the coffee, by the way. I don't suppose you have any more?"

I closed the diary and blinked. "I could make some more, if you'd like."

"Would you mind terribly? In fact, scratch that. Christ, here he comes." I turned around just as Colonel Rochard entered the room. Stumbling back, I collided with a filling cabinet and put a hand against the wall to stop myself from falling.

"Steady there, Miss Jones." I felt a hand at my elbow as Colonel Grey pulled me upright. "I think your reputation precedes you, Rochard."

"So does yours, Grey. And I'd rather you didn't try to seduce the Secretary on her first day." Too embarrassed to look at either man, I started for the door. "Don't escape yet, Miss Jones. I need some things at once." Rochard's tone was unmistakable.

"Excuse me, I just need to get a pen." I rushed to my desk and grabbed the first pen I could find. When I returned, both men were smoking by an open window behind Rochard's desk.

Rochard began at once. "I need aerial maps for Caen, Lisieux and Evreux and the minutes from yesterday's meeting with Crawley and the SOE in the next five minutes. Then you need to draft a memo for the department on the latest recruitment figures for the Service du travail obligatoire. Did you read the file I gave you last night?"

"Yes."

"All of it? Be honest."

"Everything except the last two or three pages. I'm afraid I was rather tired –"

"We're all tired, Miss Jones. If I ask you to read something, it's to help you understand the work that we're doing."

"I'm sorry. I'll try to finish it this morning."

"See that you do. And always have a pen with you."

"Yes, Sir." He nodded peremptorily, which I took as a sign to leave. I was not an unusually proud person; I did not get upset if I was criticised. Yet I felt like a child who had been scolded unfairly. My little office was already unbearably hot, and my mouth was dry.

There would be no time for a break that morning; my attempts to complete the Colonel's list were constantly hampered by my lack of familiarity with the way the office worked. The maps were not where I thought they would be, nor were the minutes from the meeting; searching for the figures to write the memo took forty minutes instead of ten. Then there was the constant stream of telephone calls and visitors, most of whom were not on Grace's colour-coded list. When Mabel decided to drop in, I gratefully pushed the stack of messages under her nose. She offered me a cigarette and began sorting them into piles. "Unimportant. Unimportant. Give this one to Margaret and she'll deal with it. Pass this one to the Colonel when you get a chance. Oh, this one's the BCRA – French Intelligence. Make sure he sees this one as soon as possible." Rising from her perch on the corner of my desk, she gave me a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder. "A quick rule of thumb: if they're too scared to go in there,' motioning towards Rochard's office, "they're probably not that important. Grace told me that. Chin up!" With a wink, she left.

By three o'clock the Colonel had still not left his office, and my stomach was rumbling. I decided to bite the bullet, and ask for permission to go to lunch. He looked haggard, his jacket long since abandoned and his shirt sleeves rolled up. The ashtray on his desk was already overflowing. I emptied the contents into the bin and went to the canteen to get him some food. On my return, he was no longer there. I began cleaning his desk to make space for the tray; clearly he was disorganised. As I was stacking up the empty coffee cups he came back.

"What's this?" He nodded towards the food.

"Your lunch, Sir."

"Thank you." He picked up the telephone on his desk and began dialling a number. "Was there anything else?"

"May I go and get some food?"

"Yes. But be back in half an hour." Brusque and economical; true to form. I wolfed down my lunch and stopped by Mabel's desk on the way back. We sat outside on the steps by the fire escape and shared her last cigarette with two girls from administration, Diana and Annie.

"Make it last, girls," Mabel sighed. "I won't have any more for ages."

"Too bad you can't ask the beast for any, Christine. He smokes the most divine Gauloises," added Annie. "I can smell them from my desk."

"They're too refined for us plebs," said Mabel. "Grace said he never offered her one."

When I got back to the office, Colonel Grey was sat in my chair, reading my memo on recruitment figures. "Not bad," he said. I hovered by the doorway, unsure what to say until he carried on. "My apologies for the intrusion. I have another meeting with Rochard, but he's engaged. He said you should go in." I grabbed my notebook and went straight through without knocking. Rochard's back was to me; he was where I had left him, sat at his desk and deep in conversation on the telephone. His lunch tray was untouched, but there were several new cigarette butts in the ashtray. I stopped myself from sighing in exasperation: did the man never eat? I reached over to take the tray, then froze as he lifted the mask – only slightly – and dabbed his face with the handkerchief. It took no more than a few seconds, but he must have heard me moving, because he turned sharply and met my gaze. I straightened up, like a guilty schoolgirl, and made to leave; but he stopped me with a motion of his hand.

"Alright. Telephone again when it's done," he said, and replaced the receiver. I tried to look anywhere but his face. "Did someone from the OSS call this morning?" He demanded. I could vaguely recall someone of that name leaving a message. "Yes, Sir. They left –"

"Miss Jones, I would appreciate it if you stopped looking at your shoes every time you speak to me."

I looked at him directly and took a deep breath. "Yes, Sir. They left a message because you were in a meeting."

"And you didn't think to tell me afterwards?"

"I was going to tell you after lunch –"

"That's too late! Look in that bloody schedule of yours and read out the first five names. Go on!" I walked unsteadily back to my desk and gave Colonel Grey a helpless look; he handed me the diary gravely and followed me back into the office.

"Calls that must be put through immediately," I began. "General C-Crawley, C-Colonel Grey, Major Dewavrin and Captain Manuel (BCRA), Major General Donovan (OSS)."

"Did Major General Donovan's office call?"

"Yes, Sir."

"The next time someone telephones and I'm in a meeting, double check the name against the list. Then bloody well check again. Is that clear?" I nodded, unable to speak.

"Thank God. Go back to your desk." I stumbled out the room. As soon as the door to Rochard's office closed, Mabel appeared. "You poor darling. I could hear him at the other end of the building. Are you very upset?" The words were barely out of her mouth before the tears came. She handed me a handkerchief and put a finger to her lips. "Don't let him hear you. It makes him even angrier, if you can believe it."

I was perplexed. "Why?"

"He believes women should be seen and not heard. We're just drudges to him."

I shook my head and sniffed. "I'm not surprised no-one is willing to work for him. He's so rude and abrupt!"

"That's why they call him the beast, my dear." That was enough to make me smile. "Cheer up, old girl. Just think: you've had eight uninterrupted hours of peace before you did something wrong. That's definitely a first! Grace would be proud of you."

I shrugged my shoulders. "What does it matter? I can't work like this."

"He's too busy to hold grudges. Trust me, he'll forget he said it in a few hours. Just stay out of his way until then." It assuredly wouldn't be the last time I did something wrong, and the idea of being scolded on a daily basis made me made me cringe. Mabel stayed with me for a few minutes longer, trying in her own cheerful way to paint a rosier picture of the situation, before reluctantly returning to her desk in the secretary's pool. I went back to work, trying not to pay attention to the voices that occasionally drifted across from the Colonel's room next door. There was so much to do, it was surprisingly easy to forget what had happened by burying myself completely in the tasks that had accumulated in my in-tray. The next time I glanced at a clock, I realised that an hour had passed without having been disturbed at my desk, then two; by six o'clock I had finished everything and felt restless. Colonel Grey and Rochard hadn't left the office since I got back from lunch, and I decided to make coffee. As the kettle boiled, I decided I would apologise for my mistake and stay an extra hour. Surely he couldn't fault me if I worked overtime? Returning to the office, I knocked on the door with feigned confidence and waited for Rochard's curt command to enter. Instead, Colonel Grey opened the door. "The intrepid secretary!" He exclaimed with mock amazement. "Are you feeling brave?" His expression was so comical that I felt confident enough to reply in kind.

"Is it safe to come in?" I whispered. He smirked, taking the coffee cups and winking at me. "Look, Rochard!" He called over his shoulder. "Miss Jones has emerged unscathed from your bad humour to bring us coffee." I followed him into the room, my eyes watering almost instantly. Despite the windows being open, a pall of cigarette smoke hung in the dry air. The small office had become even untidier, every possible surface having been covered in aerial maps. Both men had given up their seats, and stood at opposite ends of the desk. I imagined Rochard watching me with disapproval as I picked a path to the window and pushed the window open completely. "Should I get you something to eat? Are you likely to be here much longer?"

Rochard lit another cigarette and moved towards the window. "No, but you can empty out the ashtrays again. Are there any messages?"

I handed them to him. "Nothing urgent."

"Did you double-check?"

"Of course. I'm sorry for the misunderstanding this morning, Sir. I know how costly it must be for you when I make a mistake."

He glanced at me, apparently weighing his words. "No, I'm not sure that you do. Not yet, in any case. That's the last time I let Clifton employ an external candidate."

"For Christ's sake, Rochard. Do you want a secretary or not?" Colonel Grey snapped. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "Miss Jones, do you want to know what Clifton should have included in the job description? It doesn't have anything to do with competence; you are without a doubt a very competent and qualified secretary." He paused momentarily on the penultimate word to look at Rochard, as if daring him to disagree. "What Rochard really needs – and he'll deny it, of course – is someone even more bloody-minded than he is. Someone who isn't afraid to point out when he's being utterly unreasonable. What he doesn't need – " Rochard exhaled sharply and turned to face the window – "is someone to tell him how right he is, as much as we would all like to be infallible." Clearly, Grey wasn't such a person. "Miss Jones, I can see you're far too polite to say you agree and under normal circumstances, I would defer to your obviously impeccable upbringing; but in this case, you're going to have to stand up for yourself. And Rochard –" Grey approached the window, "retract your claws. You can see she's trying. Who else would have stayed here over their time and risked a second encounter after this afternoon's mauling?"

Rochard turned just enough to meet Grey's gaze. "Sebastian Grey, the Peacemaker." I wasn't sure whether he was sneering or smiling. "Miss Jones, enough is enough," he continued more levelly, walking to the desk without looking at me. "It's been a long day. Go home and get some rest." It didn't remotely resemble an apology; its coolness was almost amusing. Perhaps he was too uncomfortable to say any more, as he obviously wasn't used to small talk with the support staff.

I decided to walk back to my apartment, hoping the next day would be better. If Grey's observations were true. I had made a tactical error when I apologised to Rochard. It would have been better if I had defended myself and challenged the view he had already formed of me. Tomorrow I would need to fight my corner if I was to change his opinion.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three**_

When I was ten, my Father died of a heart attack in London as he was giving a violin recital. There had only been the two of us for as long as I could remember, wandering from one European city to the next in search of work. He'd never spoken of his family, and I didn't know if my mother had any still living, despite enquiries. Eventually the investigations stopped and I was sent to a local orphanage, which wasn't as bad as it sounds except there were too many of us. Just like any large family, I had to fight for affection and find my own amusements, trying hard to find ways to distinguish myself. My closest friend was a girl named Maggie Green, who I met at school. She was the opposite of me in many obvious respects, gregarious and self-assured where I was introspective, and the object of much male attention as a result of her wheat-coloured hair and blue eyes. We were friends despite of our differences, and probably because of them; Maggie had never left the country, and was greatly entertained by my memories of travelling around Europe. I enjoyed her quick humour and her sense of adventure. By the time we were twenty I had found work as a Secretary, and she had gotten married rather quickly to Charlie, a mechanic who had joined the infantry as soon as the war started. She was rather hurt that he had been so eager to leave, until she realised that all the young men we knew were doing the same. Patriotism had swept through London like an epidemic, until it became clear that the winning the war would be anything but straightforward.

Now Maggie had a little boy, William, and lived near Birmingham. We saw each other during holidays, and wrote to each to each other as often as we could. On the way home I tried to imagine what she would say to Rochard, but couldn't manage to replicate her way of speaking. She had grown up in a boisterous family of five boys and three girls, and knew how to fend for herself. I decided to call her as soon as I got back to my flat, and was relieved to see that there wasn't a queue for the telephone in the hallway. I slipped into the booth and dialled her number, surprised at how quickly my call was answered. "Bromsgrove 3620?"

"Is Maggie Snowdon there?"

"Just one moment, please." There was the sound of shuffling, and indistinct voices. "No, I'm sorry. She's gone out. Can I take a message?"

"No, thank you. I'll try again later."

"Good evening, then."

"Good evening." I replaced the receiver and tried not to be too disappointed. I wished I'd asked what Mabel was doing or taken some work home with me; I knew no-one else in the town and London was too far away. I trudged up the stairs to my flat and unlocked the door, making sure the blackout curtains were drawn before switching on the lights. Someone in the apartment below had a wireless radio and was listening to the news broadcast. I strained my ears, trying to make out what was said before eventually giving up. I was tired and starting to feel homesick. There seemed to be little else to do but to finish unpacking; I pulled out my battered leather suitcase from under the bed and opened it, unfolding clothes and sorting them into drawers. At the bottom were three of my father's old records, made at a studio in Stockholm when I was five or six. I left them there, deciding there was nowhere to put them. Somewhere to the west the Cliveden town clock chimed eight times, and voices on the street drew me to the window. It was a group of young women dressed up to the nines, and a couple of officers. Stopping directly underneath my block of flats, one of the men rang the bell and they were quickly admitted. Almost immediately someone began climbing the staircase, followed by the sounds of knocking on doors and low voices. It took ten minutes for them to reach my own flat, and I opened the door hesitantly to a man about my age, dressed in the uniform of a Naval Officer. "Oh, hullo." He smiled and held out his hand for me to shake. "Peter Harrison. Good to meet you."

"Christine Jones."

"Have you just moved in? Only I come here quite a lot and I've never seen you here before."

"Yes, I started work at Cliveden HQ yesterday."

He shifted, leaning against the doorframe. "Jolly good. Always nice to see a new face. I don't suppose you've had much time to look around yet?"

I shook my head. "It's all rather strange still."

"Well, I might be able to remedy that. We're having drinks downstairs. Just a few of us – my girlfriend Jill lives on the first floor. I'll introduce you, if you like. She's awfully nice – there isn't much to do around here unless you can be bothered to get the train to London, so we all stick together. What do you say?"

"Alright. I'll be down in a minute. Which flat is it?"

"First one on the left when you go down the stairs. You can't miss it. We're a noisy bunch!" I smiled as he turned back down the hallway and closed the door, exchanging my uniform for a tailored blue dress and unpinning my hair. As I descended the staircase, I found myself smiling with sincerity for the first time since arriving at Cliveden. The party was in full swing when I arrived, and I was ushered into the kitchen to meet the hostess. Jill, as it turned out, was a petite brunette with large grey eyes and an endearing gap-toothed smile. "You must be Christine! Here, have a gin sling. We haven't got much, so sip slowly." I took the drink gratefully and followed her to the living room, which was crammed full of people. "Don't mind the crowd, they're all very friendly, really," she whispered. "Only watch out for wandering hands. Just step on their toes if they get too friendly." We talked for a few minutes more, sharing information and experiences. Jill had joined the Women's Royal Naval Service as a wireless telegraphist, and had met Peter on a boat back from her first posting in Africa. "He wants to marry me, but my parents don't approve. They think anyone who speaks with a Geordie accent isn't proper. Anyway, he's being shipped out to India in a few weeks." She looked down for a moment. "So we'll have to wait and see. War is such a lottery, isn't it?" I nodded, unsure what to say. Instead, I thought briefly of Maggie's husband, who had narrowly escaped being killed by the Germans at Dunkirk. I nursed my gin sling and let Jill introduce me to some of her friends who were sat on a sofa, a few of whom I recognised from my department. Colonel Grey was a favourite topic of conversation, and the object of several unrequited crushes. My working relationship with him was soon uncovered, and it wasn't long before his admirers began to ask me for introductions.

"I could come to your office when he's scheduled to have a meeting and pretend to deliver a package!" whispered Ella, a tall, graceful red-head sat to my right. "He's gorgeous."

"I think he's married already," interrupted Jill. "His poor wife is probably tucked away somewhere, absolutely oblivious to the fact that he's seducing half of Cliveden."

"He isn't!" crowed Ella. "He isn't married. He told Rebecca Shaw he'd never get married while the war was still going on, just in case something were to happen."

Jill snorted. "That probably suits his agenda perfectly. As long as the war is going on, he can do what he likes."

"Don't be such a prig, Jill. It only takes one woman to make a man change his mind." If it had been intended as a joke, nobody seemed inclined to laugh. Ella drained her glass, and stood up. "I'm going to get another." As she walked away Jill exchanged a glance with Peter, who had come to perch on the arm of her chair. "Too much to drink," he murmured. "Gives her a sharp tongue. I'll go and fish her out before she has any more." He pushed his way through the crowd and Jill patted her pockets. "Anyone got a cigarette?" I handed her one. "Thanks. So you work for Rochard?" she said. I nodded. One of the women to my left giggled. "Poor you! I hear he's horrid. He never keeps secretaries for long."

"Don't be too quick to judge," said Jill. "If anyone's got the right to be strict, it's Rochard."

I was surprised. "What do you mean? He's not the only Colonel with that brief."

She frowned. "Have you ever heard of Chelmno?" I shook my head. "It's a labour camp in Poland. The Germans set it up almost as soon as the occupation started. They're sending people there en masse – and not just the POWs. Anyone who the government has openly expressed their dislike for – Jews, gypsies, communists. All sorts. I intercept transmissions about transportation figures all the time." I nodded. "Anyway, all the messages about the numbers of men and women being transported to labour camps from France go straight to Rochard. And the numbers are enormous now. I don't know what they're doing in those camps, but it's taking massive manpower. Rochard probably has his work cut out." Labour camps had never come up in the notes Rochard had given me, although it was no secret that the Nazi party had a political hit list. It was risky of Jill to have told me, as the penalties for passing information were severe. I didn't press her further, but I did wonder how much I knew about the work I was doing. The conversation drifted on until someone switched on the wireless and one of the officers stood on the chair to call out for silence. It was the late news bulletin, but there was little new information to be gleaned; those of us who worked at Cliveden knew how much was being kept back from the general public. After the final report I decided to leave, and said my goodbyes to Jill. Quietly, I thanked her for the information she had given me.

"Don't mention it," she said. "And do come down, any time." I climbed back up the stairs to my flat, and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four**_

I was still fast asleep when someone began knocking persistently on my door. The black-out curtains made it impossible to judge the time of day, and it took me several moments to fight through layers of sleep and look at my alarm clock. The hands were poised at four o'clock, two hours before I normally woke up. "Miss Jones, there's a telephone call for you from a Colonel Grey's office." I recognised the landlady's voice, and stumbled out of bed to open the door. "Thank you," I managed. "I'll come straight away." She disappeared down the corridor, most probably in a hurry to get back to bed. Pulling on a dressing gown, I padded downstairs to the telephone booth and picked up the receiver. "This is Christine Jones."

"Christine, this is Margaret. I'm sorry to call so early, but you'll come to the office straight away. Colonel Rochard is going to Derbyshire and he wants you to go with him." I yawned, trying to register the details. "When is he leaving?"

"He's already waiting."

"Alright, I won't be long." Despite my best endeavours, I knew I was late as I approached the entrance to the office. It had begun to rain as I crossed the compound, at first just a light drizzle and then an increasingly heavy downpour. Rochard's car was already humming as I approached, and a chauffeur in a corporal's uniform stepped out of the car to open the door and take my baggage. Rochard was already inside, apparently reading a report. I stepped in and shut the door, sitting as far away as possible from him.

"Try to be punctual, Miss Jones," he said without lifting his eyes from the page. I remembered my earlier resolve and reminded myself not to apologise. "I'll remember for next time. Is there anything you'd like me to do?"

"Get some sleep if you can. It's a long journey and we'll be busy once we get there. I'll need you to do some translation."

"What language?"

"Polish." I remembered what Jill had said about Treblinka, but instinctively resolved not to mention it. It was almost certainly classified, and Rochard would without a doubt be able to smell the blood in the water. I shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Clearly Rochard had had enough sleep; I watched as he lit a cigarette and reached for another report, occasionally making notes in the margin. I'd lost count of how much he had read yesterday, and the stack of files next to him was equally big. He was never unoccupied, or so it seemed; I felt uncomfortable not having any work in front of me, so I could at least feel useful.

I must have dozed eventually, as the sun had already risen the next time I looked through the window. Rochard had brought a flask of coffee with him and offered one to me wordlessly. It was real coffee as opposed to the chicory I had been used to since rationing began, and it was delicious. "Thank you." I attempted a smile, and he acknowledged me with a nod.

"Drink quickly. We're almost there." The military base in the Derbyshire countryside was secluded, a long way from the nearest town. It was newer than Cliveden, built in response to the increased demand for more training facilities for infantry soldiers. Rochard's credentials gained us quick entry, and we were shown without delay to a small room with a desk and four chairs. Two men were already present; an officer and a man in civilian clothes. The latter watched wearily as Rochard shook hands with the officer and sat in the chair directly opposite. Motioning for me to sit next to him, he began to speak to the officer. "Let's dispense with the formalities. My secretary, Miss Jones, will translate. Are you Pavel Bartosz?" At the mention of his name, the civilian nodded. "My name is Colonel Rochard. Do you understand what I do?" I translated as quickly as I could, struggling to keep up with Rochard's brisk tone.

Bartosz nodded. "I understand."

"You were in the army?"

"Yes. I was in the artillery. But I only had four days of fighting before the Germans caught up with me." His voice was hoarse.

"Where did they take you?"

"Krasniki, the Majdanek in June '42." Rochard made a note. "What did you do?"

"I worked in the munitions factory at first. There were mostly Russians from the siege at Kiev. Then they sent me to one of the warehouses."

"More munitions?"

"No, valuables. Jewellery, suitcases. Clothes. We had to sort them when they came in."

"Do you know where it came from?"

Bartosz shrugged. "No. The soldiers would bring it, and we'd sort it. Anything of good quality we kept to one side. The rest got incinerated."

"Did you ever see any civilians being sent to the camp?"

"Yes." Bartosz hesitated. "More and more towards the end. Not all of them Poles. Some French, some Italians. I probably sorted through some of their belongings."

"Did you ever see any of the work that was going on?"

"You mean, did I know about the executions?" I stumbled on the last words, but Rochard didn't seem to have heard. "It was an open question."

Bartosz didn't raise his voice, but his tone was clear. "I worked in factories for four fucking years. And when I wasn't working, I was trying to feed myself, and get some sleep so I didn't get sick. I didn't see any killing, but I'm sure it happened. Someone told me they shot a lot of Soviets."

Rochard nodded. "How did you escape?"

"They started to put up barbed wire fences, triple layers. We were digging holes for them to pour the concrete foundations into. There were ditches nearby where they were building new accomodation for prisoners. I waited until the guard for our group wasn't looking and made a run for it. I hid in the ditch until it was dark and then ran as far as I could get. I was lucky - once the fences were up it would have been impossible.". In his right hand Bartosz held a cigarette, and it trembled slightly as he spoke. Rochard gave him a pencil and paper, and asked him to try and draw a map of the camp. He did it in silence, bending so low over the table that his nose almost touched the paper. The Officer next to him fidgeted, leaving the room after a few minutes and returning with coffee. I was grateful, as my throat was dry. As soon as Bartosz finished, he pushed the map across the table to Rochard, who regarded it wordlessly for a few minutes before asking a few questions. There was little more to add; the Majdanek camp was large and Bartosz appeared to have seen only a portion of it. The interview concluded at midday, and we were escorted to the refectory for lunch with the. I was ravenous, and said little; I wanted time to put my thoughts into order. Next to me Rochard made smalltalk with the Officers. I thought of Bartosz, and if it were possible that he would be sent out to fight again. I wished I could have asked him more.

To my surprise, Rochard slept on the return journey. Even in his sleep, he didn't seem fully relaxed. There was a crease between his eyes, as if he were still contemplating a problem, and a tightness around his jaw. He didn't seem to take much pleasure in his work, although I could understand why. The rain had long since cleared, and the afternoon had turned out to be bright and humid. He didn't wake up, even when I rolled down the window and fresh air rolled in. As we approached Clivedon, I turned from the window to wake him, only to find that he had already done so, and was gathering his notes. He nodded at me. "You may as well as well go home. It's almost six. Don't tell anyone where you've been."

I was glad for the walk home in the warm evening air, and the opportunity to stretch my legs. At the apartment block I called on Jill's door, eager for the company, but there was no answer. I felt uneasy spending the evening alone in my room, but there was little else to do; Clivedon was twenty miles from the nearest town, and once night fell people were discouraged from making journeys during the blackout. Resigning myself to an evening on my own, I made an omelette on the hotplate in my room and put on one of my Father's old recordings. It was one of Bach's violin concertos, his favourite and mine; we never used to tire of listening to it.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

The next day I arrived at the office to find Colonel Grey sitting in Rochard's office with a newspaper and three cups of coffee. "Ah, Miss Jones. Punctual as ever. Have some coffee." I took a cup and sniffed it suspiciously, which seemed to amuse him. "I promise it isn't poisoned," he said.

"But isn't this Colonel Rochard's own supply? Won't he be angry?"

Grey put the paper down and reached for his own cup. "I sure he wouldn't begrudge you some - you work hard enough for it. And besides, I steal liberally from his supply." He gestured to the seat next to him and I sat down.

"By the by," he continued, " I've added a couple of details to the diary. Nothing too drastic - you'll need to be here first thing for this morning's debriefing with me about the interview with Bartosz. And it's my birthday. I'm meeting some friends for drinks at The Grasshopper. It's the pub on the main road, so do come. You'd be most welcome." From his inside pocket he took out his cigarette case and offered me one, our fingers brushing. His gaze met mine. "How are you getting on?"

I thought for a moment. "Things are very busy. The Colonel seems to be under a lot of pressure."

Grey smiled. "Even if he weren't, he would still put pressure on himself. He thrives under it."

"But Bartosz talked about Majdanek and what's happening in Poland. I thought the Colonel was coordinating with the maquis in France. None of my briefing mentioned labour camps."

"French Jews are being forced into ghettos and deported to labour camps in Eastern Europe. More are being built, but information is hard to come by. It's as if Hitler wants to corral everyone who's ever offended him into one place where he doesn't have to look at them. Part of Rochard's job is to coordinate with the maquis and try to establish how many people are being deported."

"Bartosz said they were executing Soviets."

"Most likely. The Nazis dislike three things especially; Jews, Communists and parliaments. Enough to execute them instead of putting them to work constructively." Grey spoke in the dispassionate tone of other Senior Officers I knew, who were no longer shocked by the absurdities of war. His face barely registered a change in emotion, and when he occasionally dropped ash into the cigarette tray, it was with a measured, elegant flick.

"It isn't an uncommon practice," added Grey. "But the scale is surprising, which is why it's been so difficult to gather accurate numbers. Escapees like Bartosz are invaluable in that respect."

"What will happen to him?"

"It's likely he'll remain in England until his health improves. Accommodation at Majdanek wasn't designed to sustain long-term residence. He wouldn't have lasted much longer." I watched as Grey extinguished his cigarette and uncrossed his long legs. "Your Polish must have been very good. It's rare for Rochard to praise someone in his reports."

If it were possible to blush, I think I must have done. "My father was Polish. It was the language we always spoke to each other at home."

"But your surname is Jones?"

"It was my foster mother's."

"Ah." Grey smiled. "In any case, I offer you my congratulations. It may be a first in the history of this office." I laughed; when I looked up I found he was still watching me. He was attractive, but not classically handsome; it was his voice, and his self-deprecating humour that I enjoyed, particularly when Rochard seemed utterly humourless. I felt slightly more energetic.

"Duty calls," I said brightly, standing and collecting the empty coffee cups. Grey picked up his newspaper again. "Don't forget The Grasshopper tonight," he called from behind it. "I shall take it personally if you don't come and commiserate with me on becoming a year older."

My optimism didn't last; Rochard was in a foul mood and didn't seem to have slept at all since the brief nap he had taken in the car the day before. Grey, so well attuned to his colleague's mood shifts, kept the morning meeting brief. The day followed a pattern that I later found was typical, and every minute of Rochard's day was planned. As his Secretary, it was my job to make sure the transition between each job was made smoothly. Nothing could be left to improvisation; if meals weren't placed in front of him at the correct time he simply didn't eat. If I took too long finding a report or translating a letter, he snapped. The slightest derailment to his routine provoked his icy temper.

By mid-afternoon I had taken to consulting the diary every ten minutes in case I had missed any appointments. Mabel stopped by for a cigarette break, but quickly turned on her heel when Rochard appeared in the doorway with his familiar scowl. "More coffee, Miss Jones." Returning with the drink a few minutes later, I set about the usual task of tidying his office. I was constantly surprised at how he could insist on enforcing such high standards in others when he was apparently so disorganised himself. There were papers on every available surface, coffee cups, ashtrays, dirty plates and other detritus. As I began cleaning, Rochard said nothing, as if I simply wasn't there. On a small table near the desk I discovered a potable record player under a pile a folders; on top of a filing cabinet was a half-empty whisky bottle and two dusty highball glasses. I took them and turned to leave, accidentally tripping on the leg of the desk and knocking over the coffee cup I had placed there only minutes before; the whisky tumblers bounced off the desk and smashed on the floor.

"For Christ's sake!" Rochard was peeling wet pages off the desk. "Get something to clean this up!" My eyes were burning as I fetched paper towels and a dustpan and brush. There was coffee everywhere, soaking up paper and swimming in an empty cigarette box. Rochard tossed most of the papers in the bin. "Some of these are ruined." To my surprise he didn't sound angry. Rather, he took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, causing it stick up slightly at the front.

"I'm sorry, Sir." It was easier to be sincere when he wasn't so hostile. He said nothing, but helped me to pick up the shards of glass. "Get rid of this and go to lunch." He turned away and went back to cleaning his desk.

The rest of that day was relatively quiet; Rochard kept his door closed and I was given no cause to disturb him. At five o'clock Mabel dragged me to the kitchen, where someone had made a birthday cake for Colonel Grey. There was even champagne, which caused a great stir given how difficult it was to come by. I decided to take some for Rochard, as he had eaten nothing since the morning, and as a kind of peace offering. He was writing when I entered the office, and frowned when I put the glass and cake on his desk. "Someone made a cake for Colonel Grey's birthday," I explained.

"His birthday is today?"

I nodded. Rochard exhaled, and took the champagne glass. "No doubt he'll be celebrating."

There was no attempt to disguise his sarcasm, and I couldn't help but feel exasperated. "So you won't be coming to The Grasshopper, Sir?"

"Certainly not. I can't afford the hangover, and neither can you. If you must go, don't go over the top." I scowled, remembering too late Grey's advice about playing Rochard at his own game.

"I hope," I began, keeping my voice even, "that I haven't given you the impression of being unprofessional. It's clear you take your work very seriously, as do I."

Rochard stabbed at the cake with his fork. "Your work isn't without merit. But it's clear to me that you don't have much experience, which makes you more suggestible."

"And prone to intimidation, no doubt?"

He appeared to understand the tacit challenge. "Those are your words, not mine. If you are uncomfortable with anything you are asked to do in this office, then by all means ask to be transferred."

"I have no wish to be transferred. As for the cake, you're welcome." I said it almost without thinking, and left immediately after. My pulse was racing; Rochard said something too low to make out and I ignored it. I decided to leave, and worry about the consequences tomorrow. If I couldn't change his attitude, I could at least try not to be defeated by it.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

I returned to the kitchen and located Mabel, who was happily draining the remaining champagne bottle. "I'd forgotten how nice it was," she exclaimed. "I haven't had a drop since my 21st birthday. Are you coming to the pub?" I nodded. "Marvellous! Let me find the girls and we'll all go together." She disappeared into the crowd of people holding cake plates, and returned with Diana and Annie in tow. "Let's go now so we can get seats." It was a fifteen minute walk, and the girls were pleasant company. Diana and Annie had been to the same school in Kent, and signed up together in 1939; Mabel shared an apartment with them. They were aghast when I described my latest run-in with Rochard. "He's the classic killjoy!" crowed Mabel. "He's a social misfit, and he resents anyone who can go and meet people and generally have a good time."

"Well done for challenging him," added Diana. "I don't think I would have had the nerve."

I wasn't reassured. "But what if he thinks I've overstepped the mark?"

Mabel passed me her cigarette. "He has no grounds for complaining; he oversteps the mark all the time, and no one ever says anything."

"But it isn't the same. I'm replaceable, quite clearly. He isn't."

Mabel snorted. "You say he needs stability; I doubt he'd want to disrupt his working routine again by having to train yet another Secretary."

"It's hardly an ideal work situation," rejoined Diana. "Even if he didn't want to get rid of Christine, it can't be nice being bullied all the time."

"Then he'll have to start compromising," said Mabel. "That's my advice, for what it's worth: don't give in. Eventually he'll have to start being more pleasant for the sake of getting his own way." Although her reasoning seemed sound, I doubted whether Rochard would be prepared to change. Routine seemed essential to him, and any deviation from the norm was unacceptable.

"Let's forget about work," I suggested. "Is that The Grasshopper over there?" I was correct, but Mabel's plan of leaving early had failed. The pub was already of people I knew from the office, and the crowd has spilled out onto the pavement. "Diana and I will get the drinks if you find us somewhere to sit," suggested Annie. This task proved difficult, and we ended up sharing a table with three Officers who were accompanying one of their friends on the piano in a lively if off-key Cole Porter song.

"Come on, love!" One of them shouted as he slid his arm around Mabel's shoulders and swaying to the music. "_You do something to meee, something that simply mystifies meee…_"

"No thanks," said Mabel, not unkindly.

"But it's a classic!"

"I'm tone deaf, sorry."

"So am I!" Aware that he was fighting a losing battle, he turned to me. "Don't tell me you are, too?"

"Afraid so."

"I'm not drunk, you know. Not even tipsy." As if to indicate this, he tipped his half-empty pint glass in my direction. "You see? Perfectly harmless. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

"We believe you," said Mabel drily. "It's just singing isn't really our forte."

"Fancy a dance, then? I bet you're very light on your feet."

Mabel looked incredulous. "There isn't room to swing a cat in here!"

"Yes, yes there is! Next door. What do you say?"

"Maybe later."

"You say that," muttered the Officer, "but you don't mean it." He turned back to the piano, and Mabel winked at me. "Having fun?"

I rolled my eyes. "Of course."

She grinned. "Good." After ten minutes Diana and Annie returned with drinks in hand and accompanied, to my surprise, by Colonel Grey.

"Happy Birthday, Colonel!" Chimed Mabel.

"Thank you. Ladies, I expect at least one dance with all of you tonight. No excuses; it's an order." He stretched out his hand to me. "Come and set the example for your friends, Miss Jones."

I shook my head. "I have two left feet."

"Then you're in luck, because I happen to be an excellent dancer. Let me do all the work." Diana grabbed my arm and coaxed me forward.

"Go and have fun," she insisted. The Colonel took my hand and guided me through the crowd into the next room, where several couples were already dancing. The music was too sentimental for my taste, but at least I could follow the beat. I was surprised to find myself relaxing, and realised it was because I hadn't physically been this close to someone for such a long time. It helped that Grey was such affable company; he was the kind of person who made conversation easy.

"I ought to congratulate you," he said with a wry smile, "for taking my advice to heart."

"For all the good it will do me."

"You might not think so, but you have. Rochard is like a steamroller; he crushes everything in his path and generally resists any external appeals to deviate. But if you can get him to respect you, it's very unlikely that you'll get flattened."

"It's an interesting simile; but I reserve the right to be cynical."

"It's very easy to be cynical with a man like Rochard. Very few people do him the justice of persevering with him."

"Are you one of those people?"

"Yes. We were at Sandhurst together, so I know what I'm talking about. On the other hand it does strike me that we talk more about Rochard then we do about anything else. What do you say to changing the subject?"

"With pleasure!" We moved in slow circles, drifting into empty spaces left by the other couples. Grey was a graceful dancer; I supposed he did most things gracefully. In such close proximity it was easier to study his profile without suspicion. His green eyes and lean jaw; his closely cropped hair, dark blonde. Once or twice I caught him doing the same, and when our eyes met we smiled. I was disappointed when he drew away at the end of the song.

"Thank you for the dance," he said. "I'd quite happily monopolise more of your time, but I seem to be in demand." I turned in the direction of his gaze and saw Mabel standing with a group of Secretaries near the bar.

"You'll be exhausted tomorrow morning."

"I'll take my chances. Don't leave without saying goodbye." He turned away and I went back to find Diana and Annie. The Cole Porter recital was still going strong, and Annie had joined in.

"We bought you a gin and tonic," prompted Diana, pushing the drink toward me.

"Come and sing with me, Di!" Exclaimed Annie, grabbing her hand.

"No thank you," replied Diana. "It's far too amusing watching you trying to sing.". When it got too stuffy inside after a few drinks , we went and sat on the grass verge just as the sun began to go down. I felt happy, and whether it was the alcohol or the company, I wasn't sorry that I had come to Cliveden.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Colonel Rochard's capacity to continue to work without stopping all day was nothing short of amazing. The more tired he was the more irritable he became, until it became inadvisable to approach him after a certain time of day without running the risk of a verbal scourging. I avoided any serious calamity that first month despite the curt words we had exchanged the night of Colonel Grey's birthday, but he gave me every indication that I was walking on eggshells. Yet for all that, I was surprised to find myself feeling sorry for him. It was if he were a child who needed to be reminded when to eat and to change his shirt. I became a 'mother hen' in spite of myself, and despite my natural timidity. Rochard reacted with typical impatience. Several times I caught him watching me with an inscrutable expression, which I pretended to ignore. I brought up meals from the canteen, tidied his office and bought him more cigarettes when he ran out. I fielded as many calls as necessary when he was particularly busy. I didn't dare suggest that he work shorter days, but made sure there were no unnecessary meetings.

In mid-July news reached us that the Nazis had imposed a law that attempted to limit French partisan violence through the arrest and deportation of the male family members of known Resistance fighters. Rochard, who advised many senior members of the Resistance, was frantic. The office became inundated with reports, and we both stayed late in case news came. On returning from the signals room, I heard music from his office. He was using the record player, which usually gathered dust in the corner. I recognised the piece, an opera by Purcell. The door opened, and Rochard appeared. "If it disturbs you, I'll turn it down."

I blinked. "No. I like Bach."

"Then I'll leave the door open." I handed him the transcripts, and he returned to his office. As so often happened when I listened to music I loved, I began to lose sense of time. It was like being in the eye of a storm, briefly, while the rest of the world carried around me. Eventually the record ended and Rochard changed it for a new one. This time it was a Bach double violin concerto, and the violinist was my father. Rochard had never entered into the same sphere as the memory of him. It felt strange that he should have a connection with someone so close to me. My evening's reverie vanished, even though the music was beautiful. I carried on working for a quarter for an hour, but I suddenly felt restless. It occurred to me that Rochard might know that I was the daughter of Maksym Marszalek, as he must have asked for a dossier to be compiled about me before I was hired. Yet I couldn't fathom what message he was trying to send if that was the case. I heard him cough, and the volume of the music increase. The secretarial pool was silent; even Colonel Grey had gone home to get some sleep when the flood of messages in Morse code had begun to recede. The telephone rang and I moved to pick up the receiver, but Rochard was quicker to the mark.

"You had better let me take it." Standing in the doorway, he looked haggard. "Can you find if there's anything to eat?" Both of us had missed the dinner provided at the canteen, served promptly at six every evening. It was shut by the time I arrived, but I persuaded one of the security guards to let me into the kitchen to make sandwiches. Rochard was at his desk when I returned. He was absorbed in the music, his head resting against his high-backed chair and his habitual cigarette in hand. The pace of the music had slowed, and when he brought the cigarette to his lips it was as if his hand were a dead weight that fell limply back to the arm of the chair as soon as he had inhaled. I placed his sandwich on the desk and began rearranging scattered pens and scraps of paper.

"Thank you." He said it so quietly at first that I did a double take. Nodding at the food, he took another drag. "Take a seat."

"Should I get a notepad?"

"No. I'm tired of my own company, that's all." I sat down but couldn't get myself comfortable. "They've shot sixteen maquisards in Paris," he continued. "It was a public execution. A warning." I tried to calculate the cost of losing so many at once. Rochard had worked with many of them, coached them and plotted their progress. Months of work had come to a catastrophic end in a matter of hours. That must have been what the phone call was about. I could barely look at Rochard. He would effectively have to start again, recruiting men from among the survivors and training them to lead groups of guerrilla fighters. The tranquil tone of the music became more passionate as the melodies of the two violinists complimented each other, building to a slow crescendo. I could almost have preferred Rochard's anger to this present mood; it would at least have heralded decisive action. Now he rested his head on his fist, his mask facing away from me, as if his ferocious drive had finally deserted him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the whisky bottle and a clean glass tumbler on the filing cabinet. Walking to it, I poured him a glass and handed it him.

"Thank you." He said it said so quietly that I did a double take. "Do you drink whisky?"

I shook my head. "I've never tried it."

"Try some now. You'll need it as much as me tomorrow." It was as close as Rochard ever got to being polite. I fetched another glass room from the kitchen and we sat together for a few awkward minutes, the whisky burning my throat. It became increasingly necessary to break the silence, if only to stop him from finishing the rest of the bottle by himself. I picked up the record sleeve from his desk. "This was his best recording. Warsaw, 1924."

"You know Marszalek's work?". His tone seemed suspicious.

I decided to risk it. "He was my father."

"You're Maksym Marszalek's daughter?"

"Yes. I thought you might have known."

"No." He frowned. "Why is your surname listed as Jones?".

"I was adopted. My father died when I was ten."

"I didn't know. I've always admired his music."

"He had a heart attack."

I was aware of being under scrutiny, as if he were looking for a resemblance. "I saw him play once, in Paris . It couldn't have been long before he died. I must have been sixteen." It wasn't clear from his expression whether the memory was a pleasant one. I had always been present at my father's concerts, and I could certainly remember Paris. For my father, it was a cultural Mecca. I wasn't sure what to think of the fact that I might have crossed paths Rochard years ago. Our gazes met.

"It was a different world," I ventured, but he didn't seem to hear me. The music had stopped, and he began to rub his temple rhythmically. I went to the record player and lifted the needle. "What will you do now?" I asked, placing myself in his line of vision.

"Go home," he replied. "And sleep."

"I could cancel your morning meetings," I said. "You could come in the afternoon when you've had a chance to rest."

"There's no need to fuss," he snapped. "We've had setbacks before and God knows, this won't be the last time."

"I understand that, but you've been working so hard -"

" There isn't time to rest. People depended on those men, don't you understand? For protection, for intelligence. It will take months to recoup what we've lost. If these purges continue, we may never achieve it. We've hit a solid fucking brick wall."

I flinched. I could already feel the adrenaline quickening my pulse. "Why," I stammered, "must you be so relentlessly unpleasant?" Silence followed; Rochard froze. Then, like an automaton slowly articulating its limbs, his head turned towards me.

"If you find it so impossible to work with me, I suggest you find employment elsewhere."

"Do you really think you're the first man to patronise me? I've worked long enough to meet my share of men like you. I can bear the workload and your condescending attitude because it's for a good cause. I'm not complaining for my own sake. Can't you see it's your personal interest I have at heart? You don't sleep or eat properly. You work more hours than anyone I know put together, and you take every failure personally. It's exhausting!"

His voice was cool, but his expression said otherwise. "This is the most important thing either of us will ever do. I'll be damned if I let anyone tell me the contrary."

"I'm not saying otherwise! But you can't do it alone. You must allow people to help you sometimes!"

"I don't have time for this!" It was muttered under his breath but I heard it, and it was the drop that broke the dam. Tears forced their way up, and I struggled for breath. Abandoning any attempt at self-composure, I put my head in my hands and sobbed. I didn't care how ridiculous it looked. On the contrary, I hoped it would force him to talk to me. If I had left the room, it would have been the perfect excuse for him to shut the door and ignore me completely. When I was calm enough to look around me, I realised he was gone. I sat down and waited; he would have to come back eventually. After ten minutes I heard footsteps. He approached me warily, proffering a handkerchief that held faint traces of his cologne.

"Where did you go?" I sniffed, hastily wiping my eyes.

"To call my driver. He'll take you home."

"So that's it. Have I been dismissed?"

"I haven't decided anything yet. We'll discuss it first thing in the morning." I couldn't believe how quickly it had happened. Only moments ago we had been talking about my father. Suddenly I couldn't stand being there any longer. I had taken a gamble, and it had failed. There seemed no point in staying; without a word I left the room and gathered my coat. New tears were angrily swatted away, and the office became a blur as I walked past the empty rows of desks. Outside the evening air stung my burning cheeks. There would be no possibility of sleep that evening.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

My fears for the evening were realised as sleep quickly proved to be elusive. I managed to reach Maggie on the telephone despite the late hour, but the baby was fretting and she promised to call me the next day. "Keep telling yourself it's only a job," she advised. "You could have the pick of them if you wanted." It was an ineffective mantra, and my thoughts soon took the shape of a vicious circle. I would have to move again; I would be leaving new friends behind. I would miss Colonel Grey, and the frenzied pace of work. Above all I was unused to failure, and it hurt.

Eventually exhaustion overcame me, and I managed a few hours of sleep. I awoke to the alarm with a gently aching head, and lay for a while on my back until I gathered the resolve to get up. I deliberately dragged my feet on the way to work, and passed through the security barriers with mounting trepidation. To my confusion and growing dread Colonel Grey was sat in Rochard's chair with a stack of files spread out in front of him. He stood immediately. "From the look on your face I gather you think I've come to deliver the final blow." I nodded. He walked around the desk and gestured for me to sit down, before fetching another chair from the next room. "You have nothing to be concerned about," he said. "Rochard's the kind of man who enjoys wielding the hatchet himself, so to speak. In any case, that's decidedly _not_ what he's going to do." Suddenly he grinned. " 'Relentlessly unpleasant,' " he snorted. "Miss Jones, you deserve a medal. And my unswerving admiration. My only regret is that I wasn't there to hear you say it."

"Colonel, have I been dismissed or not? I don't understand."

"You most certainly have not been dismissed," he said emphatically. "Although it took some of my not inconsiderable powers of persuasion to prevent it. He was rather put out."

"How did you manage it?"

"There was only one possible way, which was to point out that you were right. None of the other secretaries gave a fig about how much he works or the toll it takes. Their concern was for themselves, which is understandable. But you expressed a genuine regard for him."

"I called him condescending!"

"He knows he's condescending. The simple truth of it is, he doesn't care. Given the responsibilities he has, he knows can afford to be. And he doesn't have any false pride in that sense. You haven't offended him by saying so. He was angry because you questioned his work ethic. You see," he paused, and leaned back in his chair. "Rochard has no family, no wife. He's always told me that he prefers not to have any attachments, but I suspect his… disfigurement has prevented him from forming anything of the sort successfully. The only constant in his life has been his work. At Sandhurst he was first in every class; he was touted as the best of the best. But he isn't complacent about it. He works hard because he thinks it's the only thing he has any talent for."

"But if I hurt his pride as you say, why didn't he fire me?"

"Because you were doing it out of loyalty."

I shook my head in disbelief. "So I have you to thank for my salvation?"

Grey shrugged. "Rochard would have come to the same realisation without my interference, eventually."

"Although I might have been halfway back to London by then." That caused us both to smile. "So what happens now?" I asked.

"Give him time. He finds it difficult to trust people. Keep doing what you've always done."

"I ought to apologise."

"Absolutely not! You shouldn't be afraid of standing up to him. If he trusts you, he won't mind if you're blunt with him. In fact, don't mention what happened at all."

"Why are you helping me so much?"

"Because I can see your potential. And I want to help my friend to a decent Secretary."

"Well. Thank you," I managed. "I don't know what to say."

"You can say "yes" to having dinner with me tonight." For a moment I could have refused. I knew I might be heading in a direction that would be disastrous for me, given his reputation. But the relief I felt was a like panacea; it had cured my anxiety and left me feeling uninhibited. "Why not?" I said. We chatted for a few minutes, and then I left him to his work. He and Rochard would be spending the next few days compiling a new recruitment list. Sitting at my desk, I tried to make sense of everything that had happened. I had no idea what to expect from Rochard, but I hoped rather than assumed that things would be different. Happily there was little free time to be able to dwell on my thoughts as the news from France became popular knowledge. Rochard had been in meetings all morning to decide how to respond to the purges. With the deaths of so many maquis leaders he had incurred serious breaches in his intelligence network, and France was now left with a disparate group of fractured resistance cells. It was noon before he returned, appearing at the door holding a briefcase filled to bursting with papers. I decided to break the ice first. "Good afternoon, Colonel."

"Good afternoon." He headed for his office, but stopped mid-way and turned to face me. "Come in for a moment." His expression was neutral; I followed him through. He went immediately to his desk and began pulling out files, speaking as did so. "You've spoken to Grey." It was a statement, rather than a question.

"Yes."

"Then you know you'll be staying. We'll say no more about it." I waited, expecting him say more. The expectation proved to be fruitless. I knew better than to labour the point, and settled for tidying the office and fetching more coffee. He appeared to have forgotten I was there, and for the rest of the day we said no more than a few words each other. At six o'clock Grey came to fetch me, greeting me with a wink. "How have things been?" he asked as I gathered my things.

"I've gone back to being part of the furniture."

He laughed. "That's not so terrible. If you're part of the furniture, you're familiar. Dependable. A part of his routine."

"It's not exactly what I was expecting."

"And what were you expecting?"

"I'm not sure. I hoped he might talk to me more."

"Why wait for him? Try making the first approach yourself. Eventually he'll have to start responding."

Rochard's voice drifted through the open doorway. "Grey! Come in here for a minute."

Grey made a comical grimace. "I won't be long." He shut the door to Rochard's office behind him, and I pulled out the hand mirror from my bag for a last minute beauty inspection. I had suffered from twinges of nerves throughout the day about going to dinner, half-fearing that I was making a mistake. I had even avoided mentioning it to Mabel or the girls for fear that they would try to talk me out of it. When Grey returned a few minutes later, he looked irritated.

"Is everything alright?"

He gave a brusque laugh and shook his head. "Yes. It's been a surprising day." It was unusual for Grey to be so deliberately vague, but I sensed he didn't want to elaborate any further. He looked at me and gestured towards the door. "Shall we go?"

Grey had reserved a table for us at the White Horse, a country inn that was the nearest thing to a formal restaurant the area could provide. It was still warm outside, and as we walked to the pub he took off his jacket and offered me his arm.

I loved to tease him. "How old fashioned you are."

"I could be more of a cad, if you prefer. I'm entirely at your disposal."

"I take it back. I'd much prefer a gentleman."

"You deserve a gentleman." When I didn't reply, he looked at me. "I know you think I say these things lightly. But I like you, and not just in a professional capacity. You know that, don't you?"

I gripped his arm as if I might fall, and looked steadfastly elsewhere. "I'm beginning to. But it's difficult for me to believe you."

"Why?"

"I've been advised. To stay on my guard around you."

He seemed amused, even by this. "Yes, I've rather shot myself in the foot, haven't I? But do you believe it's possible a man can be reformed by a good woman?"

I thought for a few moments. "I believe men who ask that question generally have no intention of doing so."

"Yes. If I weren't in this position I might agree with you. Even Rochard seems to think my intentions are dishonourable."

"What do you mean?"

"He made his disapproval clear." There was a definite bite to his tone.

I decided to be blunt. "Are they?" Immediately I regretted being so candid; our gazes met by accident, and neither one of us was smiling.

"I won't pretend I've been a saint," he began. "But I've never lied to a woman." I nodded, but I wasn't satisfied with his answer. Despite the warm weather and the verdant glow of the surrounding fields, my mood had soured slightly. The man walking whose arm I was holding was too handsome, too charming to be trusted entirely. I could never expect to hold his interest for long. We walked the rest of the way to the pub in silence, and I looked anywhere but in Grey's direction. At the hedgerow fruit and the wildflowers; at the fields of wheat and the carefully tended vegetable plots. All the while I was conscious of the firm contours of his arm beneath my hand. Even though I recognised no one when we arrived, all eyes seemed to be fixed on us. It wasn't long before a waiter appeared and we were ushered through to a private room with three empty tables. I accepted Grey's offer of a cigarette, and watched him nervously as he lit it for me. We weren't disturbed except for the waiter, who brought us our drinks and an ashtray. Grey didn't mention our earlier conversation again. He was an adept conversationalist, who tried his best to put me at ease and renew some measure of our mutual sense of humour. We talked about my peripatetic childhood and my father, of whom he had never heard. He seemed reluctant to talk about his own past, although he assured me it was because I would find it "thoroughly dull. In fact, I found it so dull I applied for Sandhurst as soon I was eighteen."

I remembered that he had met Rochard there. "Are you the same age?" I asked.

"Yes. He has an impeccable English accent, but he's French, through and through. Both his parents were from the same region. Unfortunately his father was married to someone else when they met."

"Oh! So he's –"

"Illegitimate. He despised his father, as far as I can tell. He was raised by his mother single-handedly in England." Grey looked away for a moment. "I could tell you a great deal more, but I've probably been far too discreet already. Would you understand if I said it's a relief to talk to someone else who understands him?"

I was surprised. "I'm not sure you could put me in that category."

Grey leaned forward. "I'm not talking about knowing him personally." He frowned. "Perhaps understanding is the wrong word. I mean to say you accept him," he said. "Does that make sense?"

"Only so far as to say that I've accepted he'll never change."

"Impudence! What shall I do with you, Miss Jones?" Although he was teasing me, there was a promise of something more in his gaze. I took another sip of my drink until he broke he broke the silence. "Between the two of us, we can handle him. Don't you think?"

I grinned. Rochard had become the magnet in a strange triangle that enveloped us both. His moods influenced our own, and we couldn't help but act when he did. Would we look back on this day and think, with our habitual dry sense of humour, that he had been the one to bring us together all along?


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

The evening ended soon after that, but I made a promise to see Grey again after work the next day. Rochard was visibly ill that morning. He was already ensconced in his office when I arrived, the blinds drawn and the lights off. His coffee lay untouched as the morning continued, and the visible side of his face was covered in a pale sheen of sweat. Weary of confronting him, I decided to consult Grey.

"It's a migraine," he explained when I described the symptoms. "He gets them occasionally. It's usually a sign he's been working too hard."

"I'm surprised he only gets them occasionally."

"He has the stamina of an ox. When he falls ill, it's usually serious."

I groaned, and leaned against the doorway of his office. "Why did he come into work? He'll only get more irritable because he can't concentrate."

"Because lying in a dark bedroom all day would be infinitely worse. His thoughts would prey on him." I still wasn't used to Grey's habit of dropping cryptic comments about Rochard, and then declining to say any more, as if he were unconsciously withholding the last piece of a puzzle.

"Between the two of us, couldn't we persuade him to go home?"

Grey seemed to consider it for a moment. "I doubt it. It's never worked before." He began pacing. "How serious is it?"

"He flinches whenever I open the door and the light gets in." There had been tightness around Rochard's jaw, and when he spoke, it was through clenched teeth.

"We can try it, but he won't like being manoeuvred." We returned to Rochard's office together, and Grey opened the door cautiously. Rochard hadn't moved from his desk all morning; around him, papers littered the desk that I had so assiduously tidied only thirty minutes earlier. His gaze remained fixed on me, even though I had decided to err on the side of caution and let Grey try to persuade him. "You've brought in the cavalry." There was no trace of sarcasm; rather, a deep-seated sense of weariness. His head rested on a tightly clenched fist.

"You're in pain," I said, hoping to sound calm.

"I've had worse."

Grey took a carefully calculated pause before stepping in. "You don't have to prove anything to

anyone. Go home and get some rest. If anything urgent happens, Christine will telephone."

"Or I could send updates," I added. "As often as you like."

The use of my first name warranted a ghost of a frown. "What I would like," said Rochard slowly, "is to be able to do my job without interruption."

"At least lie down for an hour," said Grey. "You've always said morphine helps. I can have a doctor get you some. You can't see Crawley like this." The visits of General Crawley were always preceded by half a day of furious preparation by Rochard. As special intelligence advisor to the Prime Minister, any information presented to him could sway the course of British intervention in occupied France. Unfortunately, Rochard was due to meet with him that afternoon. Moving even a fraction seemed to be painful, and he winced as he shifted position and leaned back in his chair. "If I rest I won't be ready in time."

"I can help you with the preparation," I urged. "I've seen all of the information. Please, let us help you."

Rochard moved as if he were in slow motion, running a hand carefully through his hair. "If I stop now I won't get up again. Call the doctor if you must." I wanted to shake him for being so pigheaded , but Grey reacted quickly. "I'll telephone now." He turned around and I had no choice but to head for the door, shutting it behind me.

"How will he cope? He needs to go home!" I watched as he reached for the telephone receiver on my desk and began to dial. He placed his hand momentarily over the mouthpiece. "If you push him too much at once, he'll snap. We've done well persuading him to do this much. Hallo? Doctor Fry?" Rather than let him see my frustration, I went to the kitchen and returned with fresh coffee. Grey took it from me without a word, but I knew he would be trying to gage my mood as I sat down and began to sort through my in-tray.

"You'll have to be patient with us," he said. "We're too used to getting our own way."

"Sometimes I'd like to knock your heads together!"

He smiled. "I don't blame you. Can you forgive us?"

"He refuses to let anyone help him except you."

"That isn't true. He lets you help him; he just isn't very good at acknowledging it. Now, are you going to fret about it all day?"

"I'll be happier when the doctor gives him a shot."

"You'd certainly make a charming nurse."

I shooed him away from my desk and towards the doorway. "I think you spend far too much time teasing me."

"Let me know if you need me to take part in any other interventions this morning." He left, and I debated briefly what to do next. I was certain Rochard wouldn't allow me to help him any more than usual. I spent the rest of the morning tiptoeing in and out of his office, biting back my words as I saw him grow paler. The morphine shot barely seemed to have an effect, and by noon I couldn't contain them any longer. I gave myself a quick pep talk and pushed open the door gently. Rochard ignored me; it was his typical way of acting whenever he didn't want to be disturbed. I sat down opposite him, and deliberately placed my notebook on the desk within his eye line. "Tell me what needs to be done," I said.

He made an indistinguishable sound, and looked up. "Did I not make myself clear?" His voice was surprisingly sharp and brisk.

"Yes, and now I'm doing the same. I don't pretend to know why you're refusing my help, even though you're clearly in pain. A month ago I might have taken it personally. You like to do things by yourself, I know. And you probably think I'll make things worse if I try to help you - "

"I don't think you'll make things worse," he snapped, then stopped abruptly. "Take that green file." I reached for it immediately. "We had an agent in Lorraine who was helping to organise the passage of Jewish families to the south. His name was George Garrel. He disappeared around the time of the purges, so it's likely that he's dead. Unfortunately, there may still be families in the area depending on him. I need you to go through every scrap of information and find anything pertaining to the last known whereabouts of the following families: Pascal, Solomon, Rose." We lapsed back into silence. In an attempt to keep the room as cold as possible Rochard had left all of the windows open, but there was no breeze. I took off my jacket and began sorting through the contents of the file. There was a great deal of paper, but little solid factual evidence that could help me to locate the families. As soon as I had summarised my findings, I handed them to him. "Thank you," he said. "Take the files on top of the record player and do the same." Despite the volume of work, the morning passed more slowly than it usually did. Rochard seemed tense; I never felt comfortable when I couldn't judge his mood. At noon I suggested we stop for lunch, but he refused. "I haven't finished the report for Crawley. I made an excuse about getting fresh air, and went to the canteen to fetch lunch for us both. "Eat," I commanded, setting it in front of him, "and I'll type. Tell me what to write." Not for the first time that day, he surprised me by relinquishing the portable typewriter. We finished shortly before Crawley was due to arrive, and I was still tidying the office when he entered. He was a tall, heavy man with an uncomfortably direct gaze. I started in the direction of the doorway, but Rochard motioned for me to stop. "Stay and take the minutes," he said.

"But not before we get some coffee," added Crawley. "I've had a long drive." I shut the door behind me as I went to the kitchen. When I returned, the General had already lit his first cigar of the afternoon. "I see you have a new one, Rochard," he said. It took me a moment to realise he was talking about me. "What was wrong with the last one you had? The redhead? Magnificent. And," he paused, turning to me, "very efficient, obviously."

"She was transferred," said Rochard crisply. "Shall we start?" The cover of the report struck the table sharply as he flipped it open. With a last fleeting glance at me, the General reached for his own copy and began flicking through it. Rochard spoke with measured passion, and it was easy to admire him for it. He had spent hours gathering intelligence, and his recommendations were persuasive.

"No paratroopers," interrupted Crawley. "The PM will say they're too expensive to run. You'll have to think of something else."

"The new maquis leaders are too inexperienced," Rochard argued. "None of them have ever organised resistance on this scale."

"We've given them all the help we can," countered Crawley, "and I've allowed you a lot of leniency. But there are limits. Let the French provide the paratroopers."

Rochard bristled. "Will you speak to de Gaulle?"

"Certainly."

"Then we'll move on. I've included estimated figures for the deportation of political prisoners from occupied territory on page twenty. There's been a clear sea change in policy since the end of 1941. The labour camps are being extended. Had Heydrich been captured alive we might now know more."

"We can't be sure how significant Heydrich's role was."

"Haven't we collected enough evidence? Hitler called him "Der Mann mit dem eisernen Herzen." The man with the iron heart. Look at the telegram he sent to the Gestapo on Kristellnacht. Look at his instructions to the Einsatzgruppen. Look at the ghettos in Minsk and Riga. Last year they were overflowing with Jews he had deported from Bohemia and Moravia when he was Deputy Reich-Protector."

"Show me the evidence he had them killed," countered Crawley. "Show me conclusive evidence for genocide. We all know about the pogroms. The German papers were full of it. But you lack sufficient evidence for the rest. And we lack sufficient resources to challenge it, even if it is true."

"There are practical measures that can be taken," said Rochard. "Call on the local population in Europe to refrain from assisting the Nazis in the systematic murder of the Jews, and allow for the temporary admission of refugees into Allied countries."

Crawley stubbed out the remains of his cigar with quick, impatient movements. "Where would we find the money and the resources to support such an enormous intake? You've put this argument across before, and my answer remains the same. It goes no further than here. What's next?" Rochard remained still, with the exception of a slight trembling of the hands; he needed more morphine. He rose and walked stiffly to the door. "We need to discuss the implications of the purges for the distribution of maquis bases. We'll need the maps."

I stood up. "That's my fault. There wasn't time to get them this morning. Let me go and get them now."

"There's no need. I could do with the exercise." I knew it was as much a case of working off his frustration as stretching his legs, and let him go. Being alone with Crawley left me with a distinctly uncomfortable taste in the back of my mouth, like the odour of his Havana cigars. To avoid conversation with him, I finished tidying the desk. Behind me I imagined I could sense his nonchalant gaze fixed on my figure.

"There were some files on my chair," he said eventually, holding them out to me when I turned. "I imagine he keeps them in this room as they're confidential." To get to the only filing cabinet in the office, I would have to fit through the narrow space between the General's chair and Rochard's desk. Cautiously I began to slip through, keeping my back to Crawley. Just as I reached the cabinet, I felt his hand give my backside a reverential squeeze.

"Oh!" I lurched forward to get away from him and collided with the desk, the files scattering. Neither of us noticed Rochard at first, standing in the doorway with four or five maps. His posture remained the same as it had all morning, shoulders hunched and jaw compressed; yet his eyes disclosed a different expression entirely. "Miss Jones, could you call Doctor Fry again? I believe I need more morphine. Leave the files." I left as quickly as I could. After telephoning I waited for half an hour at my desk, unsure of what Rochard would do. The doctor arrived and we sat for a few minutes in awkward silence until the meeting was over and the door opened unexpectedly. Crawley appeared, followed by Rochard, who glanced at me quickly as he passed by. Five minutes later he returned alone. He nodded at Fry. "Thank you for coming again, Arthur. Would you give me a minute or so?"

"Of course."

"Come with me, Miss Jones." I followed him into the office and watched as he closed the door. He leaned against it heavily, as if it were the only thing holding him up. "I'd like to apologise," he began, "on behalf of General Crawley, since I'm certain he'd never say it himself. He is an ape of the first order, and I will personally make sure he never lays a finger on you again." There was something unnerving in the way he stressed the last phrase. My mouth felt uncomfortably dry. "Really, there's no need -"

"Certainly there is." It was a statement that would brook no argument. "I may be demanding sometimes. But you deserve respect."

"Thank you. I mean, I think we respect each other now. I hope we do."

"Yes. You've helped me a great deal today." He walked around his desk and sat heavily in his chair. To my surprise, he put his head in his hands.

"Is it your head?"

He nodded. "Forgive me. The pain is -"

"Of course. Let me get Doctor Fry. And then I really think you ought to go home." I didn't him give time to reply, but went to telephone the doctor and Lanyers, the driver. Word must have spread quickly around the rest of the office that Rochard was leaving early. When Grey appeared at the door, I rolled my eyes. "News travels fast," I said.

"I came to see if there was any truth in it," he said, perching on my desk. "And if there is, bravo."

"He hasn't gone yet. Don't let's count our chickens before they're hatched."

He looked at me with concern. "Are you alright?"

I shrugged. "I'll tell you later. Let me get Rochard home first."

"Would you like me to stay? In case he doesn't want to go quietly?"

"No, no. I'll be fine."

"Alright." He frowned. "I'll pick you up at six o'clock." Fifteen minutes later Rochard emerged, his coat over his arm. "I've advised him to go home," said Fry. "He'll need a day or two to rest."

"A day will suffice," cut in Rochard. He shook hands with the doctor, who gave me a small nod and left. I waited for him to say his goodbyes, but he remained standing near my desk. "I suppose you'll be seeing Grey tonight?"

"Yes. He's meeting me at six."

"Tell him what happened with Crawley. You'll feel better for it."

"I will. Thank you." I had expected a caution not to get too involved with a man who was by no means reliable, and was relieved when it wasn't forthcoming. When Grey came to pick me up, I related the strange events of the day to him.

"We'll make a complaint about Crawley," he said as we got into his car.

I was incredulous. "You're being rather optimistic out the chances of anyone doing something about it. I'd much rather leave it."

"And give Crawley licence to do it again?"

"He won't. Rochard made that very clear."

Grey stared fixedly at the road ahead. "Come for a drink with me now and we can talk about it properly."

"Would you mind if we went tomorrow night instead? I'm so tired. I'll be out like a light tonight as soon as I drink anything."

"If you like. Just as long you're alright."

I caught his eye in the rear view mirror and smiled. "I'm fine, really. Are _you_?"

"Perfectly so." We drove the rest of the way in silence. At some point I must have fallen asleep; the gentle braking of the car woke me up. Grey seemed to be watching me with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You know," he said, "you really would make a charming nurse."

"Don't be silly," I replied, laughing.

"I'm serious," he said, tilting his head. "You'd make your patients fall hopelessly in love with you."

"I think I'd be rather bossy."

"Precisely. Men like to be bossed around by pretty young women. But do be careful," he said, tucking a rebellious strand of hair behind my ear. "that they don't get too fond of you. I should hate to lose you."

I laughed again, but he was no longer smiling. "Don't be silly," I repeated.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The summer months flew by and Grey showed no signs of restlessness, which Mabel assured me was nothing short of miraculous. He was funny, attentive and undeniably good company. We also made no bones about being attracted to each other.

At the end of August I wrote to Maggie, attempting to describe him in the hopes that they might meet one day; her reply was less enthusiastic. 'I'm sure he's lovely,' she wrote. 'But in the words of our mother, he sounds like he'll be a hard dog to keep on the porch.' I stewed over this remark for a few days, turning it over in my mind again and again.

At least things with Rochard seemed to have improved. He could be brusque, but I had come to the realisation that his behaviour shouldn't be taken personally; it was simply his way of coping. There would be no drastic change in personality, no sudden flash of brilliance breaking through the turbulent exterior.

The autumn of 1942 brought troubling reports from Poland of the expansion of the labour camps, facilitating the mass deportation of Jews and prisoners of war to the east. We knew the war had taken a darker turn, but Rochard would have little influence without verifiable evidence. By October he had run out of patience. There had been no recorded successful breakouts from the camps with the exception of Bartosz, and Crawley was adamant in his refusal to release funding for reconnaissance trips. Without it, we were at an impasse. As the evenings began to draw in, he would wait until the office was empty before turning the record player at full volume. Bach, Haydn and Handel were his favourites. Not long after the incident with Crawley, he began playing more of my father's records; the 1920 Berlin concert, the 1922 Florentine recital. They were rare recordings, some of which even I didn't own. I hadn't forgotten that Rochard had seen him in concert once, in 1924; I would have been there, too, watching somewhere in the wings. Whenever I heard them my impression of him at sixteen, enigmatical at best, would flicker to life momentarily.

November came, and with it my birthday on a Thursday. Grey brought me red roses, and on the way back from the pictures we kissed for the first time. He obviously knew what he was doing, his lips brushing against mine in measured, languorous strokes. In the crisp autumnal air, the pleasure of being enveloped in his warm coat was undeniable. When we both finally drew away, it was with reluctance.

"Happy Birthday, darling," he murmured.

I swayed slightly. "Thank you."

"Are you cold?"

"Just a little." He gave me his scarf to wear as we walked the rest of the way to my flat.

"You're awfully quiet," he said after a while, glancing at me cautiously. "What are you thinking about?"

I knew I couldn't tell him about Maggie's letter, which had managed to resurface in my memory the moment we had broken the kiss. "Nothing."

"Christine. I know you well enough by now to know when you're holding something back. What is it?"

"It's just – something my sister said. It's stayed with me all week, and I feel rather ashamed about it now."

"What did she say?"

I looked away. "I'm afraid if I say it you'll be offended. I told her I thought things were going well and she said….she said she thought you'd be 'a hard dog to keep on the porch'".

He didn't reply immediately, but reknotted the scarf around my neck with a maddening patience. "She doesn't know me," he said, "but you do. I rather think you're a better judge of me than she is. Don't you?"

I avoided meeting his eye. "I don't know how someone like me could possibly interest someone like you."

"Someone like me? And who do you imagine I am?" His tone was encouraging, but I suddenly felt silly voicing my fears.

"You draw people to you," I began hesitantly. "You can't help it. You're charming. And you're very handsome."

I heard him laugh quietly. "I see. And what else?"

"I'm not any of those things."

He seemed to find this even more amusing.

"If that's all I have to recommend me, perhaps we don't know each other so well after all."

"No, that's not what I mean," I said hurriedly. "I'm sorry to be so…indecisive."

His hands squeezed my arms lightly. "Stop overthinking it. Just tell me the first thing that comes into your head. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." I looked directly at him. "But I'm afraid I'll bore you. Eventually." I winced as I said it; it was exactly the kind of thing Maggie would have told me not to say to a man I liked.

"My darling girl," he said, "nothing you do could bore me." He paused. "I don't know how to explain it exactly. Time will tell, though. You'll see." I let him kiss me again; I liked him too much not to. As soon as I was alone, I made a new resolution to try and give him the benefit of the doubt.

The next evening I worked late again. For some time I'd attempted to persuade Rochard that he needed to leave work earlier and rest, but nothing would move him. He prowled the office and the typing pool outside as the music played. It seemed to help him think. I'd begun the day with the hopes of finishing the work he had placed in my in-tray by six, but the stack of work had doubled. More than once he caught me glancing wistfully at the clock; each time, he seemed on the verge of saying something. I schooled myself for a sarcastic remark.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"I…breakfast time, I think."

"Why didn't you eat at lunchtime?"

"I forgot."

"You forgot? Miss Jones, you must eat." It took me a moment or two to understand that he was joking. I smiled involuntarily and he did the same.

"I'll go down now," I offered, standing up. "The canteen should still be open. Can I get you anything?"

"I'll go with you." He motioned for me to go first. As we walked down he stayed two steps behind me. When we reached the canteen, he stopped and turned to me. "What would you like to eat?"

"I – whatever they have that's still out. I don't mind." He headed for the kitchen and I chose a table by the window. I had brought a report that needed proof-reading with me, but I was too hungry to concentrate. The nights had begun to draw in; it didn't take much to feel tired any more. I turned back to the report, when a shadow crossed it. It was Rochard. He set down a bottle of red wine and two glasses. "You don't follow your own advice," he said, sitting opposite me. "You eat less than I do."

I watched him pour the wine. "Aren't you going back to the office?" He paused. Immediately I knew I had said the wrong thing.

"Don't let me interrupt you if you're working."

"I only meant –"

"You only meant that you'd rather be alone."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" I threw up my hands. "I'd like some wine."

He poured it without a word. "They'll bring the food when it's ready." Only Rochard could have persuaded the kitchen staff to serve us as if we were in a restaurant. He took out his cigarette case from his breast pocket and opened it, offering it to me. "Be careful," he said as I took one. "They're strong." I held it out for him to light. Then, after lighting his own he shut my file and placed it on the windowsill. "You and Grey seem to be serious."

"I – I don't know about that."

"He certainly seems to be serious about you."

"So he tells me."

"But you don't believe him?"

"Colonel, if you're trying to warn me..." I couldn't think of how to finish the sentence.

He leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. "No. I'm just curious." I sipped my wine and he mirrored me, his expression inscrutable. "You work together. It might put the two of you in an awkward position if things were to go wrong."

"So you don't believe him, either?" I had to refrain from sounding too sharp. "Considering he's a friend of yours, you don't seem to give him much credit."

"Perhaps." He paused, frowning. "You once told me you had my personal interests at heart. Even though Grey is an old friend, allow me to return the favour."

"Please stop," I rejoined. "You can be sure you've done your professional duty. If I do run into trouble, you'll have nothing to reproach yourself with."

"You misunderstand me. It's quite clear that you…lack experience. No, don't be offended." He leaned forward and repeated it, more gently. "Don't be offended. Even if you choose to disregard everything else I say, believe that I say this with the best of intentions."

"If you really have the best of intentions, I'd rather you didn't say anything."

"I'm not trying to patronise you. But let's talk about something else." He reached for the bottle and I realised we had already drained both of our glasses. We chatted about work instead; when he chose to he could be an attentive listener, and quickly changed the subject whenever we exhausted it. By the time the food came I was lightheaded and ravenous, too hungry even to care how it would look if I wolfed down my food. The dessert was the highlight; baked peaches with whipped cream and rum.

"I haven't had peaches since before the war started," I sighed. "I didn't think you could still get them."

"There aren't many," Rochard stated. He had already finished his food and had lit another cigarette. "Grey told me it was your birthday yesterday, so I called in a favour. This was as much as could be had on such short notice." He watched as I finished the last spoonful, and then raised his glass with a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Happy Birthday, Miss Jones."

"I – thank you." Such thoughtfulness on Rochard's part was astonishing. "You didn't need to go to so much trouble for me."

"It was no trouble." I wished he would say more, and realised with a jolt that I was fishing for compliments.

"Well, I've had a wonderful birthday."

"I'm glad."

"And I appreciate that you are trying to give me advice about Colonel Grey –"

"But you'd rather I minded my own business."

"_No_, it was kindly meant, I'm sure. But I don't think it's a mistake. And even if it is, I'd rather make it than be scared off without giving it a chance."

"Some mistakes are irreversible." Once again, I wished he would say more; but the conversation was apparently at an end. He stood up and finished the last of his wine. "I must go back up. Come when you're ready." I stayed for a few minutes after he left, fuming inwardly; it felt like he had played a cheap trick to gain the upper hand. I took the report and returned reluctantly to the office. As soon as I'd finished it I took it to him at his desk. "I've finished proof-reading and I've done everything in my in-tray. I'd like to go home now, if you have nothing else for me."

Rochard looked up. "I've upset you."

I took a deep breath before responding. "No. I've had a long day and I'm tired. May I go?"

"You're not being honest with me. But go, if you're feeling tired. We'll talk again on Monday." I knew if I said anything, it would prove him right. I turned and left without a word.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

I tossed and turned that night, unable to dismiss the knowledge that Rochard disapproved of my feelings for Grey. I didn't doubt that he meant what he said. Grey had been called to London for a meeting the next day, but promised he would be back by the evening. Even though I'd resolved to give him the benefit of the doubt, I decided to tell him what Rochard had said.

I got up as soon as it was light and went to the communal bathroom at the end of the hallway to wash my hair. On my return I found a note from the landlady, slipped in its usual fashion under the door. 'Call from a Mrs. Snowdon, Bromsgrove 3620. Please call as soon as possible. Urgent.' As soon as I was dressed I hurried to the phone booth. Maggie answered on the third ring.

"Maggie? It's Christine."

"Thanks for calling." Her voice began to tremble. "I had a telegraph about Charlie."

I gripped the receiver. "Go on."

"He's been wounded in Tunisia. Shot in the leg by a sniper. He almost bled to death and then he caught dysentery at the hospital." She was sobbing by now. "They can't tell me anything else. I don't know what to do. Can you come today?"

"Oh, Maggie. Of course I can. I'll telephone and tell you the train times."

"I already checked. There's a train from Cliveden Station in an hour. You should be in Bromsgrove at noon."

"Alright. How's the little one?"

"Asleep. But not for long." I stayed on the phone until she stopped crying, then left a message for Grey at his office cancelling our plans. Thanks to the war fewer civilian trains were running, and the train station was busy. I chose a window seat and watched the landscape drift by, unable to concentrate on the novel I had brought with me.

Maggie met me at Bromsgrove Station, her eyes swimming as I pulled her into a hug.

"Any news?"

"No," she sniffed, wiping her eyes as she pulled away. "But I wasn't expecting any."

"Where's William?"

"I left him with the neighbours. I was up all night and I'm so tired. We'll have to walk back." I linked my arm in hers and we began walking. She lived twenty minutes away in a small semi-detached house with two bedrooms and an allotment at the front. As soon as the front door opened a Jack Russell terrier bounded out and began barking. "Get back in!" Shooed Maggie. "Don't be frightened," she said, realising I hadn't followed her inside. "He won't hurt you. Charlie thought I needed a guard dog. He's been a bloody nuisance, though. He bit the postman last week." I walked in and shut the front door behind me. It was a short walk to the living room. The Snowdons weren't wealthy, but Maggie was a proud housekeeper. There was a small Persian rug in the centre and a fireplace with a small wireless radio, flanked by a sofa and two armchairs. In the corner was our mother's piano. "Make yourself comfortable," called Maggie from the kitchen next door. "I'll let the dog out so he won't bother us."

I ran my hand over the piano keys. "I could take him for a walk if you want a nap."

"I already gave him one. I've tried sleeping but it's no use." She reappeared with a tea tray and set it down on a table next the sofa. I joined her, and she handed me a cup. "Tell me what happened," I said. She pulled the telegraph out of her dress pocket and handed it to me. "It's all in there, but there's not much else to tell. The Battalion Commander wrote it." I scanned it. "They can't risk shipping him home until his leg improves, but there's a high risk of infection at the military hospital. That's how he caught the dysentery. Bad drinking water."

I sighed, and handed her back the telegraph. "I wish there was something I could do."

"That's what makes it so hard. There's nothing to do but wait." Her eyes were dry now, but her hand trembled and the teacup clattered in the saucer. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course."

She drained her teacup. "I need something stronger. Let's go to the pub. The neighbour said they'd keep Will until teatime." There was a definite chill in the air as we walked up the lane towards the high street. Bromsgrove was a rural town, outwardly untouched by the war with the exception of the galvanised air raid shelters in every garden. At the pub I insisted on buying the drinks. "Tell me about you," said Maggie as soon as we had chosen a table. "Distract me. How's your Colonel Grey?"

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about Charlie?"

"If I start talking about him, I'll start picturing him in that hospital bed. So yes, please. Let's talk about something else. Tell me about Colonel Grey."

"He's fine. As busy as ever."

"You're blushing. Has he kissed you yet?"

I smiled in spite of myself. "Yes."

"Ah. And he's a good kisser, I can see that. Do you do want to do more than kiss him?"

At the idea of it something inside me clenched, pleasantly. "Yes. I think so. But it's not just that. We get on so well. I'd like you to meet him."

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "If you want. Did you read my last letter?"

"Yes. I thought you were jumping the gun, rather."

"Maybe. But given his reputation, I can't be the only one that thinks that way."

My argument with Rochard came to my mind, and I shook my head. "No. Rochard thinks it's a bad idea. He thinks I'm naïve."

To my surprise, she smiled. "How many other women do you think Grey has seduced in your office? And how many of them do you think Rochard has warned?"

"I have no idea."

"Christine! I think you do. He doesn't sound like the kind of man who goes out of his way to give warnings to people he couldn't care less about."

"I used to think that too," I said. "Now I think he would warn them, even if he didn't like them. He's not really the sort to stand by and do nothing."

Maggie snorted. "I may not know him as well as you do, but I do know this: men like Rochard and Grey never do something for nothing."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "Rochard's no saint. He's a man! Maybe he doesn't want you to get involved with Grey because he doesn't want to lose a decent secretary if it all goes wrong. Or maybe he wants you for himself."

"Maggie!" I spluttered, nearly losing my drink. "It isn't like that."

"Why not? You've been right under his nose all this time. You're practically his office wife! You're pretty, you're intelligent. And I bet he's curious about you anyway because of your dad."

The more Maggie talked, the more uncomfortable I felt. "Rochard doesn't play games," I rejoined.

"How do you know that?"

I had no answer. "I don't."

"I shouldn't have said anything," she said. I just don't want you to rush into anything. This war makes you feel like you have to live every day as if it's your last." Her change of mood was so abrupt that I barely had time to register it; her eyes welled up. "Sorry. Sorry. I can't stand this waiting." She waved my hand away when I offered her my handkerchief. "I'll be fine in a minute."

I moved to the seat next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. After a few minutes, one of the barmen came over with two fresh drinks. "On the house," he said. "I know her husband."

I nodded. "Thank you." I handed Maggie hers. We stayed for another hour, until the wireless was switched on for the news bulletin. The North African campaign was still the focus of the majority of the reports, and neither of us had the stomach to be reminded of Charlie. It seemed easy, at first, to push thoughts of Cliveden away when we got back to the house; I insisted that Maggie lie down, and went to fetch Will from the neighbours. We sat at the kitchen table and I watched as he drew spitfires on sugar paper, small at first, then messier as his eyes began to droop. As soon as he was fast asleep I carried him to the sofa and tried, unsuccessfully, to keep busy by preparing the dinner. My mind wandered, and seemed to fix on Rochard like a stuck record, trying to match things he had said and done to Maggie's theory. There was no way of knowing how he really felt; he played his cards close to his chest. And the simplest explanations were usually the best. It would be more plausible to believe that his concern over my involvement with Grey was professional. Nevertheless, certain things about him struck me afresh: the strange colour of his eyes, his deep voice. It was hard to imagine a life for him outside of the office, and I realised I hadn't attempted to do so until now. Most of all I wondered if there were other parts of his life that he was passionate about, as it seemed to me he never believed in doing anything in half-measures.

I had let my imagination run away with me but Rochard stayed in my thoughts all day, an ethereal companion. At six o'clock Maggie emerged from bedroom and we ate dinner at the kitchen table. When she insisted on doing the washing up I went to the telephone box down the road and telephoned Grey.

"I wondered if you might call," he said on picking up. "How is your sister?"

At the sound of his voice I suddenly felt like crying. "She's alright. She's – she's worried. She wants to know what's going on. So do I." I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and tried to ignore the tight feeling in my chest. "I'm glad I got to speak to you."

"You mustn't worry," he said. "I got through to the Director of Operations. Apparently Private Snowdon was injured at Sidi Rezegh when the British troops were withdrawing. He has dysentery but the leg wound isn't too bad. They'll probably send him back to Algiers to recuperate in a few days and ship him back to his battalion in a month or two. He'll be uncomfortable, but he will be alright."

"Oh, Charles. Thank you."

"No need for thanks. And tell Maggie that if she wants to send her husband a telegram, I can arrange it."

"I will. She'll be so glad." The lump in my throat was forming again. "Will I see you tomorrow? I'll be back on the 5 o'clock train."

"Of course you will. I'm going to pick you up from the station and we can have dinner somewhere, unless you need to get up early for work?"

"No," I began, shaking my head until I realised he couldn't see me. "For once work is the furthest thing from my mind." And it was; suddenly, the need to see Grey was the only thing that was important.

"Good. Try to get some sleep and I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, darling." I replaced the receiver and walked back to the house slowly, trying to recompose my thoughts. Maggie was ecstatic with the news, and insisted we celebrate. At one o'clock in the morning, tipsy and exhausted, I crawled into bed.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

There were things I realised I already loved about Grey: his sense of humour, his compassion. I had left a happier Maggie late the next day with a telegram for her husband in my pocket. Grey met me at Cliveden Station and hugged me without hesitation; I turned my face to the crook of his neck and relished the spicy scent of his shaving soap.

"How can I begin to thank you," I murmured, "for all your help?"

I felt him smile against my cheek. "Thanking me is a terrible habit to get into. I might take advantage, you see." I pulled back enough to look him in the eye, and slowly, deliberately, touched my lips to his, kisses easy and slow. Eventually we headed back to the car and he drove me to the pub, but as soon I had eaten something my eyes began to droop. Grey was quieter than usual, but just as solicitous. After he dropped me back at my apartment, I looked through some files for work and went to bed.

Rochard's raised voice was the first thing I heard that morning as I entered the office. Before I had managed to take off my coat the door swung open and one of the intelligence analysts sped past, head down and shoulders hunched. Rochard paused in the doorway without noticing me, his face thunderous.

"Good morning, Colonel."

He started, but his expression lost its grim expression immediately. "Miss Jones. How is your friend?"

"Fine, thank you." I remembered Maggie's theory, and avoided his gaze, which suddenly seemed too direct.

"I have a favour to ask you," he said. "Wait there." He went into office and returned with a folded piece of paper, which he handed to me. "I have a visitor coming at lunch. She's a relative of mine. An aunt. I need you to entertain her until I time to meet with her." His tone lacked its usual sense of command; he really was asking me a favour.

"I'd be delighted. What shall I do with her?"

"I've written down the address of a restaurant. Just get Lanyers to drive you and I'll come as soon as my meeting is finished."

"What time will she be here?"

"Twelve thirty. Her name is Jeanne Gillebaud." I nodded, slipping the paper into my pocket. "Anything else?"

"Not for now. Thank you." I sat down at my desk and began but found it hard to concentrate faced with the prospect of meeting another Rochard. Grey came by the office for his morning meeting, but had no advice to give. "I've never met her," he said. "She lived in France until 1940. Rochard got her out before the French signed the armistice." He paused. "She relies on him for money. He pays her rent, gives her a living allowance. Doesn't have a penny after the Germans seized the banks."

"Do they get on?"

"I'm not sure. I shouldn't think so, if she's anything like his mother." I spent the rest of the morning catching up with correspondence, until Lanyers finally arrived at twelve twenty-five.

"She's waiting in the car," he said with a wink. "I don't think she likes wasting time." Grabbing my bag and coat, we walked past the security barriers and out into the chill November air. Lanyers opened the door before I could manage it; Jeanne Gillebaud looked nothing like her nephew. She was small and blonde, with perfect posture and a welcoming smile, although her gaze was shrewd.

"You must be Miss Jones," she said. She extended her gloved hand and I shook it. "Enchantée." Her voice was heavily accented. "Thank you for keeping me company. I suppose my nephew has a good reason for being absent?"

"He had a meeting. An important one," I said.

"Naturally." She reached into her purse and pulled out a lacquered cigarette case. "Do you smoke?"

"Yes."

"Please, help yourself." I took one and waited as she searched for her lighter. Her hands shook as she brought it to the tip of my proffered cigarette and then lit her own. Our eyes met. "My apologies," she said. "I'm an old woman now." She sat back and inhaled deeply. "I never used to feel old until I left Paris. Then suddenly, I find myself in England. What these Germans have done to me!" She smiled, and it was Rochard's smile.

"I'm sorry he couldn't come," I began. "He asked me to apologise –"

Jeanne's smile widened. "Erik never apologises. Even to me! But thank you. I'm sure your apology is very sincere." The car began to move away. I looked out the window at the rainclouds gathering towards the northeast, only to find her studying me when I turned my attention back to the car. "You must have been employed very recently," she stated.

"Yes. About four months ago."

Her right hand inched towards the pearl necklace around her throat, touching them as if for reassurance. "And how do you like working for my nephew?"

I knew very well the reaction she was expecting. "He works very hard," I replied. "I worry about him, sometimes."

"I'm glad. Erik inspires many things, but sympathy isn't usually one of them." She glanced out the window and straightened. "Are we there already?"

I looked out, and recognised the sign for the restaurant. Lanyers parked and walked around the car to open the door for Jeanne. "I'll be back in an hour with the Colonel," he said. She nodded, and turned towards me. "Well, shall we go in?" The restaurant was small but elegant, and the menu a decent one despite wartime rationing.

"Have you always lived in Paris?" I enquired after the waiter had taken our orders.

Jeanne didn't hesitate. "Oh yes. Since I was a little girl. My sister and I were born somewhere else, but I don't remember the name. By the sea, perhaps." She waved a hand. "It wasn't important. I've never wanted to live anywhere else."

"And your sister is Colonel Rochard's mother?"

She nodded. "Yes. She's dead now, God rest her soul. My poor Antoinette."

"Oh," I stammered. "I didn't know."

"Why would you?"

I knew I was being appraised again, and blushed. "I spend so much time with your nephew, but I don't know him very well."

"I am not surprised. But I think I'm the wrong person to ask if you wish to know Erik any better." The waiter returned with our drinks, and Jeanne waited until he had left again. "You look worried. Have I said something wrong?"

"No, no," I protested. "Excuse me, I was thinking about my work."

"Of course."

I couldn't tell whether she believed me or not; in truth, I wanted to ask her more about Rochard. Instead, I took a sip of wine and changed the subject. "When did you leave Paris?"

"As soon as Poland was invaded." She paused. "My husband died in the Great War, and my sister in '24. Erik was the only family I had left, but I hadn't seen him in two years. Then suddenly, he came to see me. He said he knew it wouldn't be long before Hitler had designs on France." She shrugged. "I didn't believe him, but he insisted that I go back with him to England. I was angry with him for a long time. Not," she laughed, "that he minded. He thought he was right."

I couldn't help but smile. "Do you miss Paris?"

"Yes, but this war can't last forever. I've lived through one war; I'll live through this one. I'm more worried about my nephew."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he'll work himself into an early grave. Or walk into it, if he gets his way and goes back."

I shook my head in confusion. "I'm sorry. Goes back where?"

"To France, to active duty."

I shook my head again. "He's never mentioned it."

"He's a good soldier; men listen to him. And he's always preferred combat to office work. I used to wonder if it was because he liked violence. But I think it's because he likes to put himself in danger. He likes to take risks." She paused to drink some of her wine, and then continued. "I've never understood people who do such things."

I was struck by recent memories of Rochard, pacing the corridors in the evenings and snapping at staff. "He's frustrated," I said eventually. "He wants to make a difference, but he can't make it happen quickly enough from Cliveden. If he goes to France, that would all change." Why hadn't I thought of it before? I had become accustomed to finding I knew nothing about Rochard, but this news was the most disconcerting. Before I had time to reply the food arrived and we ate in a kind of comfortable silence. The more I observed her the more I was convinced of certain similarities between Rochard and his aunt, including the feeling that she could say or do something that would suddenly catch me off guard.

She finished her wine, and topped up both of our glasses. "I have a feeling we shall get along very well," she said. "I've met so many of Erik's secretaries. Short, tall, blonde, brunette. I liked the last one he had. She had some spark, although she couldn't care less about my nephew. But you look as if you want to cry."

"No," I shook my head, even as something inside of me resisted. "I'm quite alright."

"It's alright to feel upset."

"I'm not upset. It would be a shame if we lost him. The office, I mean. He's very good at what he does."

"Oh, I think he is more than good. But he doesn't want my advice." Jeanne exhaled sharply. "I have tried and tried. But he pays my way. I am a duty to him."

"I'm sure that isn't true."

"There's no need to be so polite! We Rochards prefer plain speaking." A waiter came to clear the plates. "And so I am going to speak quite frankl y to you, Miss Jones. I would like you to be my spy. If my nephew does decide to go to war, I would prefer not to be the last to know."

"I'm not in his confidence either, Madame Gillabaud."

"Oh! _Qu'elle est t__ê__tue!_ I'm not asking you to commit treason."

"I'd be the last person to know," I said, more brusquely than I had intended. "Excuse me. I think you give me more credit than I deserve. Clearly he doesn't tell me everything. I wouldn't have known he intended to go to France if you hadn't told me."

"I would still be very grateful for any information you could give me."

"I can't risk giving him another reason to distrust me." It would mean beginning all over again.

"He would hardly send you to babysit me if he barely trusted you. "Give credit where credit is due." Jeanne shrugged. "But if you have so many reservations, I won't ask again."

"Thank you."

She checked her watch and sighed. "Do you think he will be much longer? I cannot miss my train."

"I'll telephone and find out." I stood up to find the waiter, but she stopped me almost immediately.

"No need. He is here." I followed her gaze and saw Rochard threading slowly through the tables, his gaze fixed on Jeanne.

"Aunt." He nodded stiffly, as if someone were pressing his head forward against his will. He turned to me and I gave a tentative, reassuring smile. "Please, join us for dessert, Miss Jones."

"I am sure she would like to get back to work, Erik."

"I don't want to disturb you if you have things to discuss," I replied.

"You see? She wants to go. And we have so much to talk about."

Rochard scowled, but seemed to think better of arguing. "When is your train?" He asked Jeanne.

"At 3 o'clock."

He turned to me again. "Have Lanyers take you back to the office. Tell him he can pick us up at 2:30."

I nodded. "Alright." I held out my hand to Jeanne. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

She smiled. "Yes. I look forward to seeing you again very soon." Rochard said nothing, but pulled out my chair as I stood up and handed me my coat. He looked at me for a moment, and then I turned away.


End file.
